


Sound Life

by alnora



Series: Fragments [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Broken!Cas, Canon Divergence, Child Abuse, Destiel - Freeform, First Time, M/M, Original Character(s), Parallel Universes, Torture, evil!Dean, two idiots in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2017-12-17 14:07:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 79,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alnora/pseuds/alnora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new threat may not be what kills a member of Team Free Will this time. Is it the cause of an outbreak in uncharacteristically aggressive monster attacks? Updated. Completed. The path to God begins with a step.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

“I do not believe this to be wise.”

“You may be correct,” he said indifferently, looking to his hands and flexing them. Controlling a physical body was not difficult in the least, but the sensation of movement -hair brushing against a bare arm, the flow and shifting of weight as one walked, the pull of skin and tightening of muscle that came from simple things such as sitting down or making a fist, the itch of fabrics against skin- took momentary adjustment. “As I recall, you were not obligated to accompany me.”

She looked down to her bare feet, the color of the manicured nails blending almost see seamlessly into the plush carpeting. Soft. Pleasant. The woman dug her toes further in. “Do not misunderstand. I am not here out of concern for you and neither am I concerned about my welfare. That it... unnecessary. Rather, I fear of the effects our presence will have upon this universe. This has never been attempted before for what is arguably a valid reason.” 

She rose from the sofa to stand next to the smaller male who was still absorbed in the mechanics of this new form. To an uninformed observer it would look as if the young man were ignoring the woman. This could not be further from the truth. Planet, galaxy nor universe could sever their bond.

“And yet here you are,” he pointed out dully, but then again that's how he always sounds. He turned around to his partner, unblinking. “I ask again: Why are you here? If not for my safety, then perhaps it is for a reason similar to mine.”

“Curiosity?” A change in inflection. Disgust? Affronted? Was it even intentional? “To watch them is to know them; I need no more. No, I am here because of your lust to meddle in time otherwise left untouched. I will not let you involve yourself.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I assure you, you will be disconnected if information is disclosed.” She paused, running a hand through her hair. Another enjoyable sensation. It was becoming simpler to understand why humans desired nothing more than to be touched by others. Once more, running her fingers through like a brush. “Why do you want this? I can think of no other reason than to interact with them.” A blank stare was her only response. “You must not...”

Her words betrayed her even voice, one of a concerned colleague. But of what? “What harm will inquiries cause? My own questions, not theirs,” he responded to her darkening presence. “I believe you escort me because you do not trust me, that I will begin to sympathize with the humans or that they will enrage me in some fashion leading me to insert myself into their affairs. What makes you so sure?”

She did not have a proper excuse, but she must not remain silent. “Every opportunity risks a weakening of will...”

The young man strolled to the fireplace, observing photos as he passed by. Two photographs side by side, one of himself -the child he was controlling- and one of a much younger boy, by eight years perhaps, who shared the same dark-lashed green eyes and confident smile. Brothers. These must be for school, he acquired. A superfluous annual ritual, but he did not understand most human customs. A small, forgettable music box was placed unopened beside that, painted white with light blue embellishments on the lid and a brass crank below the unassuming rectangle. He gathered from his partner that it belonged to the woman, passed down from grandmother to mother and eventually to daughter, but with two sons the tradition would die with her.

A wedding photo. Two young people with their whole lives ahead of them, a future where joy and happiness would greet them every morning until their final day. The wife looking aside to her relatives as she hopped down the church steps with her husband's hand in hers, her smile, her excitement, contagious. The husband, while more restrained, nevertheless looked as happy as she, gripping her small hand tightly in his as to not lose her in the crowd.

More odd and quixotic human traditions.

“You speak like them already, using a word of their own naivety, birthed from ego. Why do you assume it is I that shall fall under the sway of humanity? Are you exempt from soothe-saying and those who plead for our benevolence?”

“Because it was not I who desired to seek them. I have told you time immeasurable that I do not want counsel... They are for the most part detestable.”

“Yet you cannot ignore them.” The boy turned to view his partner who seemed to show signs of discomfort, a wrinkle in her brow visible. Was standing for such a period of time making her uncomfortable? Or better yet, was he correct? “Their existence fascinates you, as it does mine. You do not desire to involve yourself directly, but you will be there, two steps behind me, as I investigate. I am not mistaken in my assumption, yes?”

The silence proved him positive.

“There is nothing wrong with this behavior. I am not terribly fond of them either, but to realize their importance... I cannot sit as a bystander any longer and neither can you–“

“We are not the same,” she interrupted, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. The desire to rest was taxing, but she would not. Not now. Not in front of him.

“If that is what you truly believe. I fail to see the harm in it. Standing here bickering about who is correct and incorrect will not get us closer to solving that maddening question. Shall we begin?” He appeared in front of her and gripped both of her shoulders, steadying her swaying. A sharp nod in acquiescence to himself and he disappeared, leaving the woman alone in the quiet, spacious house, her house, and internally reprimanding herself for losing this battle. 

But she was stronger. Her will, her resolve she will display and win, making her colleague see the errors of his ways before he doomed them all.

They would not end up as the angels have.


	2. Lucidity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean can’t catch a break, even in his dreams. A case begins and Castiel take a trip.

_This is why he does it._

 

_OK, maybe there are two reason why he does it, all for his own selfish purposes._

 

_One is the recognition, the simple satisfaction he has knowing that the moans and the panting and the chanting of his name over and over are for him and him alone. He can look up to view the clenched eyes and parted lips and slender fingers gripping the bedsheets like he wanted to rip holes into them, and hear between sharp intakes of breath_

 

Dean... Dean...

 

_and grin so smugly inward that Satan himself would be shocked. He is doing this to him, the angel imagining no one else, wanting no one else but his human to share his bed and indulge in his body._

 

_That's what it was, wasn't it? An indulgence, as Dean got as much pleasure out of this as the wanton Castiel currently was. Though he remained untouched, this is how he wanted it; his own needs would distract him from his goal._

 

Mmm– Dean

 

_His voice drawled on, moving his legs further apart slightly in an invitation for Dean to continue, to go further if possible._

 

_That was it. That was the reward. The dominance was merely a cherry and whipped cream. The way Castiel spoke Dean's name when he lay like this, when his mouth claimed his body, was the god damn blueberry pie itself. The honey-coated vibration shook Dean and seemed to do the same to the very air around them.. It rattled his brain, almost dizzying him. To hear that guttural groaning, the same raspy voice that Dean had teased him endlessly for over the years, was what made this nearly equivalent to sex. The tenseness in his gut, the flutter of his eyes, a contented sigh, a tingle up and down his spine. It was all there. Despite straining in his own shorts, he did not consider once releasing his grip on one of Cas' thighs and the base of his cock, stroking what Dean was unable to reach with his mouth, but he was hoping to change that in due time. With Cas more the willing to be a subject to Dean's experimentation, it shouldn't take too long to become skilled._

 

_Down. A languid pull back up, lips sealed tightly and cheeks drawn in creating suction. A mewl; Dean was going too slow. More, faster, why must you tease? His hand continued to stroke, just as slowly his mouth had, tongue now playing with the slit._

 

Dean... _Cas whined. He lifted his head slightly to view Dean, moving at a pace so frustratingly slow that he seemed to be on a vacation, not a worry in the world and no responsibilities to anyone._ Please... Too slow.

 

 _The hunter looked up at Cas through his eyelashes._ I'm trying to coax more out. Now be quiet. _He resumed his work, sealing his bruised lips around the head and tongue flicking._

 

You mean... _His breath hitched as Dean intentionally grazed his teeth over the sensitive flesh._

 

Exactly that, yes. Zip it.

 

 _Cas chuckled, or tried to as his exhales were interrupted by sharp and spasmodic inhales._ Would it not be easier... if I achieved orgasm quickly rather than–ohh, _he choked out as Dean ran his tongue flat against the underside of his cock,_ rather than hoping more preseminal fluid will form?

 

_Mere weeks ago Dean would have choked on air in response to Cas' blunt use of medical and technical terminology to not just sex but anatomy in general, but having the angel's various body parts in his mouth on a now regular basis lightened the impact of such phrases._

 

Sure I could, but where's the fun in that? _Not to mention how listening to an otherwise stoic and headstrong creature beg for release, to give in to something so primal and human turned him on far greater than he was willing to admit or his body was able to show. He was not a stranger to such psychological arousal, but it had been way too long and he greeted it like an old friend._

 

_The taste, well, it was an extremely pleasant surprise. That was what frightened Dean, but only at first; the horror stories that assaulted all senses made him feel uncomfortable and kind of nauseated. But those were human problems. How do angels fare? A celestial diet was having no diet to speak of, so that was something. Other than the stint in Purgatory and a small amount of post-Purgatory, they're hygienic and... Well, this all bothered Dean something terrible until one day he had Cas naked and hard underneath him but with eyes so patient and understanding that Dean thought to himself, fuck preconceptions._

 

_Molten hot velvet against his tongue. The musk accumulating over the day was non-existent. Salty perhaps, but not the highly condensed briny liquid he was expecting._

 

_It was Cas. It was not the body he was inhabiting. The taste, the moans, the curl of his toes when Dean got it just right, and of course his bewilderment when the insufferable human insisted on slowing his ministrations down to the speed of grass growth. It was Cas and he wanted every little thing he could offer._

 

_Mine. Yes._

 

_Don't let go of him. Don't let him fall._

 

I won't. _Dean sighed and looked up to Cas, who stared back with the same veil of disappointment._ Looks like the honeymoon's over.

 

 _Cas turned his head aside._ You never let me finish. _Like clockwork he pouted resembling the stubborn child he was when they were interrupted. Dean rose to all fours and crawled over top of his sulking mate, a glimmer of light in his eyes._

 

You know I can't control it. I'll get ya off one day. Promise. _He grinned in spite of himself, realizing how absurd that sounded out loud. Yes, Dean meant it but really, it was an odd promise to make. If circumstances were different, that is._

 

_Castiel huffed and looked Dean in the eyes. He opened his mouth in reply and shut it just as quickly, eyebrows lowered quizzically. The internal struggle for words was lost on Dean but he made no mention of it. In the meantime he would enjoy Cas' display of every facial expression he knew. It wasn't much. Maybe the fact that his length remained fully engorged resting on his stomach was making him feel peckish. That was understandable._

 

_A warm hand caresses Dean's cheek, soft, reassuring, thumb tracing through stubble._

 

Libera te ex infernis .

 

 _Dean cringed and violently shook his head, batting the hand away._ No. You can't do this again. You sound like him, you sound exactly fucking like him! _His voice rose exponentially higher as his frustration and anxiety grew. Flight was now not an option, invisible chains tethering him in place. Several times this has happened yet he still struggled against those bonds like a captive animal, frightened and aggressive._ Why... Why are you pretending to be Cas! _he growled._

 

I am, Dean. _Whatever it was currently inhabiting Castiel looked genuinely upset._ Why do you fight me?

 

Fuckin' liar! _Dean spat and pulled his fist back. Never given a straight answer, it was all he could do._

 

 _One to the nose, the echo of the crack sharp in the small expanse of the room. Another to the temple, then the cheek, blood beginning to drip from the left nostril. The pain never registered from the force and neither did it for “Cas,” who looked neither hurt nor scared nor threatened. Only patient. Always humbly waiting. Why did he look like that? It always ended this way and the expression never changed. Do something. Say something._ Answer me!

 

_Another._

 

_That voice. He couldn't tolerate it. Could not accept it._

 

_Another crack and blood on his knuckles._

 

You can't do this to me, _Dean nearly choked out._ It's... _He hung his head low and squeezed his eyes closed._ It's not fair.

 

_The last one, a blow he put his entire body weight into was intercepted, “Cas'” grip easily holding back his own. Blood on his lips running into his grinning mouth, dying white teeth. Reddening swollen skin. One eye sealing shut. And he brought that hand to his lips, kissing the swelling knuckles._

 

It's okay, Dean. Libera te ex infernis.

 

_A flap of wings and his world turned_

 

to an all too familiar sight. Filtered sunlight through cigarette smoke-stained curtains, resting in a bed that was not his own. A ceiling fan rotating slowly above him which as far as he could recall was not on when he and Cas went to bed. Cas must have had his reasons. Fake hardwood paneling just shy of his field of vision a beacon of his lifestyle as much as the Impala and the artillery she transported. A tsunami of nostalgia and repugnance would rise within whenever his focus strayed to the tacky motif.

 

Another day, another motel room. Another bright beginning in the life of Dean Winchester, slayer of monsters and other assorted abominations, and dreamer of sex as violent as his waking life. This made it the third night in a row in a span of weeks that seemed like eons of troubled sleep. An occasional wet dream was nothing new to him; lengthy journeys on the road, injuries, unpleasant cocktails of hexes and curses, and those rare as good news evenings where he simply struck out left him more sexually frustrated than should be allowed for a guy such as himself. Violence came with the territory, images seared into his memory like a retinal burn. But together... It was discomforting. They stood on the border of nightmare and omen. They did not frighten him nor scare him, although the visions left a residue of unease for nearly a half hour after waking.

 

 _Do_ the dreams have a purpose, a portent of something to come? Was it frustration? Dean's inability to act upon his emotions and urges weighed heavily upon his mind daily. Drawing a hand close to the angel he cared so deeply for, the angel he wanted to show that love to, only to pull away.

 

His angel. Ancient and innocent all at once. Misguided but weren't they all? A creature who suffered just as harshly as Dean and yet remained so understanding and endured. The man, a mortal with daddy issues and a toxic attachment to his brother who thought the world owed him nothing would gaze into the soft eyes of an angel who proclaimed that it owed him everything. Castiel was not ignorant to the struggle Dean was enduring internally, but the creature who bemoaned riding in automobiles laid beside him in silence, asking no questions and encouraging only with a quick quirk of his lips, knowing there were some problems he could not help solve and trusting Dean to come to a conclusion.

 

If it's not a demon or ghost haunting him, it's sex. Or a lack of it in this case.

 

Dean rubbed his eyes vigorously and let out a discouraged groan. He couldn't take many more nights of this.

 

“You looked troubled, but I was still reluctant to wake you,” Cas replied softly to Dean's movement. “Should I do so next time?”

 

He laughed darkly to himself; even Cas knew there was going to be a next time, the frequency not lost on him either. While becoming a nuisance and a foul ending to what was otherwise fantastic dreams, he was not sure if he should prevent himself from having them. Was there a deeper message he wasn't able to perceive yet, some symbolic bullshit that was better left to his brother to decipher? Like the Latin. That's Latin, right? It has to be. Other than the exorcism ritual he knew not a word of the dead language. Hell, he wasn't even sure if the phrase was only gibberish doing a very convincing impression of what he thought of as correct.

 

Dean was positive Cas could translate for him, but he was not ready just yet for the magnitude of questions the ever-curious angel would ask. Sam, on the other hand, would know well enough not to pry after the first inquiry. He'd find the time to ask his brother privately. That simple task sounded like the quest to find the holy grail with Cas quite literally perched upon his shoulder. He loved Cas to death, but he made it so difficult to talk behind his back while he faced you only a foot away.

 

“No, it's fine,” Dean said, trying to convince himself he was, in fact, fine. “They're not nightmares or anything. Just a little bit on the weird side. Nothing I can't handle.” His voice grated like rocks in a food processor from a dry throat, but removing himself from the bed to remedy the situation sounded like the most idiotic decision to be made in the history of bad decisions. His legs wouldn't budge and god damnit, he remained somewhat aroused and confused... Confused about the dream and confused as to why he was turned on despite him caving in Cas' head.

 

Some days he wished he had the option of calling in sick to work. Pulling the blankets above their heads, pressing Castiel tight against him and commanding him to not ask questions and be quiet, let's go back to sleep and let Sammy risk his ass today, it rang like church bells in his mind. If only.

 

_Dean... Please._

 

Oh yeah, everything was fine.

 

Deep, soothing breaths, Dean, come on now. In, that's great, doing just fine, and out.

 

“Your lie is obvious,” Cas said matter-of-factly, “but I will not press the matter further as a courtesy.”

 

Dean swallowed, trying to wet his parched throat. “Very kind of you, Cassy.”

 

Cas huffed at the childish -as if “Cas” wasn't juvenile enough- nickname. It nipped at his skin like an insect, nothing but annoying to him, and Dean knew it. All a part of being a member of his new family. But that was absolutely no reason to enjoy it. Cas had made a mental list of sobriquets for his mate, contemplating them days before the rainy day in the Impala. Upon inspection, he concluded that the risk of aggravating or having Dean storm out of his life with tears in his eyes was too great. So he withheld them, as Dean continued to taunt with “Cassy” when the urge struck him.

 

The Winchester twisted onto his side and shoved an arm under the pillow, closing his eyes. “Is it too late for me to go back to sleep or are we at that point where you start _unintentionally_ kicking me and groaning until I get up?”

 

“Sam left his room to begin his morning jog fifteen minutes ago so staying awake would be reasonable.” Cas continued, somewhat affronted. “I do not mean to hit you. Resuming sleep is difficult for me...”

 

“Yeah yeah yeah, why don't you just admit it? You paw at me so you can get my attention. Don't think I haven't noticed you falling asleep every night before I do: it's so you're not left alone. And you don't run the risk of oogling me while I'm passed out,” Dean added.

 

He could feel the angel shift, sitting up. What he could not see was his expression, his voice providing no hint to the honest emotion behind the matter. “I touch you so that I may have your attention. That's a partial truth,” he pointed out more lightheartedly, becoming amused with himself. “The kicking is due to my being unable to reclaim unconsciousness. You cannot sense the difference between a caress and my knees bumping into yours?”

 

Dean tossed the covers over his head, not sure if he was intending to muffle his voice or Cas'. “No, I can't. They all start feeling the same around the eighth bruise, Pele.”

 

“I am... sorry...” Cas' voice faded, like something grabbed his attention and he forgot he was in the middle of a conversation about bedtime etiquette and safety. It remained this way for what felt like five minutes to Dean, still anticipating for Cas to be ashamed or steamed or fucking _something_. He remained still and silent.

 

“Cas?”

 

Did time freeze?

 

“Hey, Cas?”

 

Wasn't Chronos dead? Damnit, _angels_ again? What's wrong now?

 

He uncovered his head and pulled down the bed cover to his waist. Well, Cas was blinking, so that was a positive sign. Dean pulled himself up onto his knees, tight muscles and limbs aching in protest. The glossiness of his eyes and relaxed facial features told Dean he was in the very far recesses of space. Hands limply placed on either side of his thighs, his gaze was dead ahead as if he were watching a show on the television directly across the bed, like when Castiel paid the utmost attention to the delicate nuances and subtlety that was _Bridezillas_ and series of the like.

 

A quick wave of the hand and snap of the fingers yielded no results. Did I short circuit him? Dean asked himself. I broke him, didn't I? I just blue screened the guy I have sexy bloody dreams about. No, that doesn't sound right. It has to be a waking dream.

 

“Alright Cas, I'm gonna bet my necklace that this'll snap you out of it, I'm that positive. How about...” Dean paused for dramatic effect, leaning in close to Cas's ear and whispered, “ _Cassy._ ” He beamed, expecting a pat on the back and a job well done. It never came; Cas didn't budge a fraction of an inch. Dean sighed disgustedly, ashamed with himself for failing when being so damn sure.

 

“Good thing there's no witnesses to that bet I just made,” Dean mumbled, unconsciously clutching at his neck. “Our little secret, right Cassy?”

 

Castiel blinked.

 

“Glad we're on the same page. Now there has to be some reset button on you somewhere.” He grabbed Cas by the shoulders and mildly shook him, almost expecting to hear a rattle of a broken part inside. “Unless it's an angel poking where it doesn't belong, then you better wake up so you can stab them.”

 

“Who do you want me to stab, Dean?”

 

Castiel's eyes unglazed so quickly, his voice came on so suddenly and so calmly that Dean yelped and fell onto his backside and nearly off the bed. “The hell, man?!” Dean forced out indignantly, trying to remain calm despite the embarrassment of screeching out like a little girl. It was his eyes, he rationalized. It was if he had a second set of eyelids. Nothing he hadn't seen before, although terrifying to see in someone he shared his bed with.

 

“Have I done something to startle you?” Cas asked innocently.

 

“Um, yeah? You just... You don't remember, don't you?”

 

“I haven't the slightest clue as to what you are talking about so it is safe to assume that no, I don't.” Cas squinted. “Are you sure you weren't dreaming?”

 

“I wasn't. I'm pretty certain I wasn't.” Dean hunched over in both exhaustion and defeat. “Now I don't know. It was just...” He shook his head. “It was weird.”

 

The angel leaned over and patted Dean's hand. “But I see you're awake now. I am too, which means I can't kick you, correct?” Dean nodded, head still drooping. “Your dreams nor my regard for your time will affect you. For a short period.” A broad smile graced Cas's lips.

 

Nothing about this settled right with Dean. His own dreams of nearly beating Cas to death were he not interrupted, Cas blanking out and being so swift to pass the blame on him. It did not bode well, not at all. Vision like this weren't to be shoved aside and ignored; no, he had made the mistake of doing that, losing valuable information so he could pass them off as hippie New Age “dream interpretation” bullshit. Something was amiss but there was still too little information to narrow down possibilities. Telling Sam or Garth “I had a bad dream” would get him laughed at, and saying Cas blacked out in bed, well, he'd never hear the end of it. All Dean could do now was wait for a hint and hope it did not come at a cost.

 

A ruffle of sheets and Cas rose from the bed and Dean begged to Cas's father that if he were truly listening to his creation he'd get Cas to cover up because he really, _really_ didn't need this right now. He padded to the small kitchenette hidden dimly in the corner of the room and opened the refrigerator door.

 

“You sound like shit.” After deep contemplation that the brightly colored purple sports drink had the appearance of good taste, he grabbed it and tossed it Dean's way who, after a brief internal struggle that made the American Civil War look like a pillow fight, looked at Cas and cursed all the gods he could name.

 

He snatched the bottle out of the air and twisted off the cap. At least Cas wasn't completely unlike himself. Dean enjoyed it so when Cas cussed. It made him slightly less of a nerd. Only slightly.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam returned shortly after Dean found the willpower to lifelessly roll off the bed and shuffle to the bathroom to brush his teeth. The youngest Winchester brother announced his arrival with a knock on the door and a shout loud enough the cars on the interstate could hear.

 

“Would you two finish up having sex in there? We have places to go Dean and I'm starving.” A pause. “But not as much as you were.”

 

Dean could _feel_ that little shit of a horse snickering through two walls separating them. One of these days he would have Cas face-down on the mattress and was going to make damn sure Sam knew it.

 

A slam of a door and Sam returned to him room, to peel off sweaty clothing and shower meaning Dean had very little time to get ready. For a man the height of a giraffe and hair like a lion's mane it should take much longer for Sam to bathe. If his hair style were to give anything away, he probably just willed himself to be clean; Dean had never seen his brother use spray nor gel nor mousse to get that shiny and perfectly windswept look and that made him, in Dean's book, a dick. Perfect hair, perfect grades, perfect abs, perfect manners. Why was Dean protecting him, again?

 

Dean turned off the television before Cas could become too involved with whatever garbage aired on cable this early in the morning and demanded he get dressed. Despite the normal stubborn resistance, it never lasted long and Cas obliged, wings flapping and tie askew.

 

“One of these days you'll poof on your clothes correctly,” Dean chided, tightening and centering the knot.

 

There's more to this act than simply correcting clothing. Castiel knew this well, watching Dean do this countless times. His eagerness to help, the attention he put into it similar to tuning up and maintaining Baby. It affected Dean on an emotion level, playing the part of big brother and father to someone new: c'mere you idiot, let Big Brother Dean fix this for you. There was so little he could do to help his angel physically, so Cas let him, on the days Dean noticed enough that the tie needed adjusting.

 

In a race to beat the clock Dean threw on his standard interview/morgue suit-and-tie costume with such speed that by the time he finished he thought an award was in order. Oh the ways he maimed himself to show up his brother; he wondered if it was ever this way with Castiel's brothers once upon a time, competitions to show who was better at something or who loved Dad more. He was a pain in the ass and perfect, but Dean thought himself very fortunate to only have one sibling.

 

The heat that hit him like hammer to the face as he opened the door made him want to broadcast his disgust to the world using language not meant for most of it and turn around to the comfort of dwelling indoors. Castiel trailing him out the door made that impossible. Too sunny, too hot to be wearing so many layers of clothing. The quicker the job gets done, the quicker he could change clothes, Dean ensured himself.

 

Fearing to set himself in the Impala just yet, he opened the door to air her out and rested against the front of the car.

 

“Could you do me a favor, Cas?”

 

“Yes, as long as you allow me one, also.”

 

Dean hummed in interest and crossed his arms over his chest. “I'll see what I can do.

 

“I know you're not gonna like it, but would you take off that fucking coat? My insides are melting just by me looking at ya.”

 

“But I do not sweat. There's no reason for me to do that,” Cas protested, looking down at his attire without realizing.

 

“I'm not chaperoning you on this field trip with it on. Besides, you'll draw attention like flies on carrion in this heat. You might not know this yet, but,” Dean glanced over his shoulders as if he were about to divulge an earth-shattering secret and the press might be hiding in the bushes recording it, “humans do sweat.”

 

“I do not wish to go on a _field trip_ today.” The words were stressed, a new phrase to his vernacular.

 

No, this wasn't right, not at all. Since the day in the Impala when he asked Cas if he looked for mutual suffering in a mate he had never passed an opportunity to travel with the brothers, practicing the investigative side of hunting. Something was off and Dean was not hallucinating it. The short time between Cas waking and sitting up to exit the bed, something had occurred. The request rose red flags but to bring this suspicion to Cas' attention would only put him on the defensive again. Like before, all he could do at the moment was agree to the request and inquire later.

 

“Sure Cas. You're a big boy, no obligations to tag along all the time.” Dean climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut, rolling down the window and leaning out of it. The heat was still suffocating, but this was going to be as good as it was going to get until he got the car rolling. “Just promise me that,” he took a short and sharp breath, trying to force the concern out of his voice, “that you'll come back here, 'K? If you get into trouble,” he added as Cas' eyes grew darker. Someone meeting Cas for the first time, maybe even Sam, might not notice it. Dean sure as hell did.

 

Cas replied playfully all the same. “Yes, mother. I'll respect your curfew.”

 

“I swear to god, Cas, your sass mouth is going to get you in trouble one of these days.”

 

Sam exited his room beside Dean's own, hair partially damp and momentarily clean as Cas flew off, tan coat remaining on his body. “He's not coming with us?” Sam asked, pointing with his thumb to the empty space, just as confused as Dean was.

 

“Guess even angels need a change of scenery sometimes. Weren't you hungry?” Dean hollered, wanting to change the topic as quickly as possible. “How about... a rectangular egg substance breakfast sandwich, huh? Sounds delicious! C'mon Sammy, what the hell are we waiting for!” Sam grimaced and approached the car, not so hungry anymore.

 

Cas would come back, right?


	3. Jericho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean begin to investigate a developing line of atypical murders. Stranger than normal, anyway. The past resurfaces.

“Hey, Dean?”

 

“Yeah?” He replied, snapping a latex glove unnecessarily to his wrist. It made him feel so much more professional, like he was an actual FBI agent instead of a man impersonating one. After spending all of his adult life creating fake ID badges and playing dress-up, the FBI should initiate him on principal alone.

 

“Aren't you just the least bit...” Sam furrowed his brow, trying to find the correct word. “Unsettled?”

 

“Unsettled? About what? Like our lives revolve around death and torture, does that make me a little restless?”

 

“No. Well, kind of.” A quick scan the names on the storage cabinets revealed the body they needed, Sam sliding it out in a smooth motion. “We just had breakfast, and a _huge_ breakfast at that. By the way,” he looked over to his brother leaning on the autopsy table in the middle of the room, “I feel like I have to bathe after watching you eat those hash browns. The grease... How are you still alive?”

 

Dean leaned himself off the table and put his hands into his coat pockets, casually walking his way beside his brother. “I've died way too many times to let a little cholesterol and saturated fat take me out. Besides, I have a knack for beating the odds and your assumptions. 'Oh Dean, that's going to kill you, why don't you eat sawdust and orange rinds like me?' 'Dean, that demon is too dangerous, instead of using violence why don't I talk to it?'”

 

“Jesus Dean, I _don't_ speak like that,” Sam rolled his eyes. “And was it necessary to mock antlers on your head with your fingers like that?”

 

“Damn right it was.” The corner of Dean's mouth quirked up into a smile.

 

Sam sighed. It was way too early to be fed up with Dean's shit already. Investigation days were long, longer than most. Early to rise, repetitive drives to interviews, the interviews themselves, hours of research that lasted well into the night and sometimes into the next day. The end of the world is cataclysmic but at least it has an end, unlike Dean's facetious mouth. “ _As I was saying_. We just ate and we're now going to poke at a cold disfigured corpse and not only that, but as we have a casual conversation about how casual we are while standing right next to it. Doesn't it frighten you how adjusted we've become to this lifestyle?”

 

“The way I see it? Morticians do the same thing everyday and they're functioning members of society. Well,” Dean shrugged, “as far as I know. They saw open skulls, crack open rib cages, weigh organs like they were produce at a grocery store and ask their assistant if his daughter won that soccer game she was playing yesterday. Same with law enforcement. Some face death more easily than others.”

 

“Yeah...” Sam looked Dean in the eyes, a sudden seriousness taking him. “But did you ever imagine it would be that easy for you? For us?”

 

The muscles of Dean's face tightened briefly, a pause in his usual quickfire replies showing that this conversation was heading into a direction that was otherwise off limits and would be ending before Dean's mind had a chance to reflect. “I can't speak for you, Sammy, but I knew exactly where I was heading. I didn't have the same luxuries growing up that you had.” He clenched his jaw shut before he began to raise his voice and say something that would cast a gloom over the rest of the day. The job came first; there would always be another time to brood over his childhood. And the situation with Castiel earlier? That wasn't a situation. Yet.

 

Fingers digging into the palm of his hand, Dean made a tight fist hoping the discomfort would distract himself from his high-strung thoughts. “Let's can the Dr. Phil crap for now and get to work.”

 

Sam silently agreed as Dean grabbed the corner of the sheet and pulled down.

 

 

As it turned out, Sammy really was onto something a week and a half ago when he interrupted Cas's solo costume party at the bunker. A couple of hours before, while sleep eluded him, Sam searched online for suspicious deaths, the standard case fare: locations, missing body parts, punctures. Two incidents seemed to have good leads as he told Cas and Dean once they arrived in the kitchen for coffee, Cas composed and indifferent to his bedhead (and after several minutes of the hunter's pleading and begging for charity, Cas changed back into his suit and coat) and Dean, shoulders tense and eyes wide, blinking rapidly. Sam had several guesses to explain his brother's panicky expression but none he wanted to think about too deeply.

 

The first case came from Ashland, Ohio. A female in her early thirties found outside in her backyard, 70% of the flesh missing from her body. Her boyfriend had an alibi and the neighbors heard nothing and because the lights stayed off all night no one knew she was even home.

 

“Missing flesh...” Sam looked expectantly to both Dean and Cas from above his laptop. “That set off any alarms?”

 

A quick shake to clear out the fog in Dean's mind, he answered. “Well there's, um– it could be a wendigo, but the last time I checked they don't dine at residential buffets. And what about... What the hell's their name?”

 

“Rakshasa.”

 

Dean slapped his thigh. “That's it.” Though his mind had cleared up some, visions of Castiel's pale flat stomach being replaced by layers and tan and modesty, his voice was still syrupy thick, still trying to catch up with the rest of his body. “Thanks for thinking today for me, Cas.” He heard a loud snort come from across the table. Instead of calling Sam a bitch like he rightfully deserved, Dean laughed acrimoniously and flipped him off.

 

“So we have two possibilities, right? There'll probably be even more once we investigate further, but as it stands right now: What do these creatures have in common? _Other_ than being flesh-eaters, Dean.”

 

Castiel began to softly drum his fingers against the warm coffee mug, doing what he could to not answer the question. He would have to wait for his turn.

 

Sensing Cas's struggle to not be a teacher's pet, showing an act of restraint that was becoming more and more common as their relationship continued, he decided to let the nerdy angel answer. “Go ahead. Don't want you exploding again.”

 

“Having my vessel explode was disorienting, Dean. I had no idea where I was. It's not something to joke about lightly.”

 

“Now that you mention it, where exactly did you go? Did you just kinda,” Dean waved a hand lazily in the air, “float back up to heaven?”

 

“ _Dean_.”

 

Sam snorted once again, earning a quizzical look from Dean and something along the lines of blind contempt from Cas which only made him want to laugh harder. Dean's casualness, Castiel's tone in response to that flippancy. It may not seem like much, but to anyone who knew the two as well as Sam did, it showed a hell of a lot of progress. By now Cas would have teleported himself to a point on Earth furthest away from Dean in a huff of indignation. Yet here he remained, with a scowl and an angel blade concealed in his coat that he contemplated using but never did. He's changing. Dean is changing him whether he recognizes it or not. It may seem to subtle, but to an outsider the transition was as heart-warming as their situation could be. They were acting as if -though Sam would never dare say it aloud- they were married. So he covered his mouth to hold back another impending chortle and apologized, asking for Cas to continue.

 

“Before is was thoughtlessly disrespected,” Cas' eyes darted to Dean beside him, who took a sip of coffee and found a corner of the ceiling suddenly irresistible (Sam bit his lower lip), “I was going to say that, from what I've gathered from your father's notes and being in your company over the years is that both of these instances would be incredibly rare. Wendigos inhabit woodland areas, not suburban sprawls, and a rakshasa sighting has not been reported in several years. That is,” he turned his attention to Sam, “if no other hunters have encountered one.”

 

“I called up Garth and he says he hasn't gotten a confirmed rakshasa report since he took over,” Sam confirmed.

 

“So there's a chance one of two endangered baddies come out of retirement. No bombshell there,” Dean implied skeptically.

 

“Well that's what I thought too at first, until I came across another vic with a very specific part of their body missing in a different part of the country. Another ring to Garth and he confirmed my suspicion.”

 

“And this would be what? A heart? An eye? Pinky toe?”

 

“Oh, I bet you're going to love this one, Dean.” Sam coughed out a hollow mockery of a laugh, trying to cover up something that resembled everything of his brother. Bitter, forlorn. He read off the statistics like a line he was forced to memorize. “A man, aged 43, on his way home from work makes a pit stop at a gas station, fill the tank up then so he doesn't have to the next morning before work. Uses a credit card to pay but never even opens the cap. As far as the video surveillance shows, something caught his attention off to the side. Loud noise, movement, a voice, no one knows yet. The surrounding area is fairly wooded area so all he would have seen was brush, tall grass.

 

“Anyway,” his eyes dart down quickly, tapping something on the laptop's keyboard, “he goes off to investigate the source, going off camera. The guy never reappears. Noticing the car's been there for nearly fifteen minutes and abandoned the store clerk heads outside to see if the owner is there, asks the current patrons if they're seen anyone loitering around. (The moment he pulled in until several minutes after he disappeared from view the vic was alone.) No, I didn't see anything. By pure happenstance he calls out near the boundary between the woods and pavement and hears a rustle of leaves and footsteps, like someone was off in a hurry. He was spooked and called the police 'cause it could have been anything: rabid animal too close to the property, teenagers acting like teenagers, or it could have been the reason we're talking about it right now.”

 

“Oh, I know this one.” Dean leaned in close to Cas and whispered loud enough for Sam to hear. “Don't worry, I got this.” Cas turned his head to the side and rolled his eyes. “The answer is,” he raised his voice to a near shout, “'What is a ookie spooky ghoulie?'”

 

God damnit, and he sounded so confident and proud, like he didn't purposely say one of the most ridiculous lines ever uttered by a Winchester, and that came from many, many ill-spoken speeches recited over many, many cursed generations. “Yes, Dean. That's... correct.” Dean nudged Cas on the arm, _See Cas? What did I tell you? I knew it._ The angel understood just fine, and ignored it all the same. “It wasn't a question, but yeah. Good for you. So an officer gets there, checks out the woods and finds our vic on the ground, face up. No visible gunshot or knife wounds, really no signs of a struggle at all except of some blood on the face. Ambulance arrives to pick up the body and notice something a bit peculiar: the back of the head was completely smashed open and the brain wasn't, uh, in its proper place. The weapon was never found, either.

 

“The body is taken in for an autopsy and what they found is one of two details that make this situation very relevant. To me, anyway.” Sam's voice was beginning to take on a sour note, as if the words burned on his tongue. He remained in control but his distaste was audible. “They examine the haphazardly used brain and find its fucking _pituitary gland_ is missing.”

 

Why did that sound so familiar? But then the dots began to connect themselves at the speed of light, key words sparking memory. Pituitary gland. Autopsy. Parts of the brain missing.

 

Amy Pond. Dead. Her son. Sam.

 

“Kitsune,” Dean said in a near whisper. That explained Sam's interest in the vic, and the waver of umbrage in his voice. It had become personal. Dozens of concerns flashed through Dean's mind, hoping none would make manifest on his face, Jacob taking priority. Sam was already emotionally invested. To show panic would undoubtedly be picked up by his brother and the topic of kitsunes and Amy Pond was a can of worms best left unopened.

 

Did Sam suspect anything? Did he find out through some means that Amy was dead and, worse, that Dean killed her? Was Jacob now killing? He had promised his mother's murderer that he would not kill anyone but Dean, but promises weren't worth the air they were breathed these days, even less so from hostile creatures.

 

He settled down these worries, deep down to his stomach, to fester along with all of his other problems in life, ulcers be damned; but still showed a small amount of concern, casting his eyes low and a shift in his seat, that he recognized the situation Sam was in, being reminded of a troubling ordeal in both of their lives. One that ended in betrayal and as far as Dean knew, that morsel of information was shared between two motherless boys.

 

To the side of him, Castiel felt it. Contrary to what Dean believed he could not read minds. However, the luminosity, the purity of his raw emotions would rise off of him like a solar flare, changing the air around him. An even humming vibration on the rare days he was content or in a state of relaxation: sleeping without dreams, a day of no hunts, no blood, no deaths, no world to save; when Dean would be comfortable enough to let his defenses down; when he looked into Castiel's eyes while they both lay in bed in silence, mind lulled into a contentment normally foreign to him: the warmth of a body next to him, the assurance of a powerful and august angel ready at a moment's notice him, to kill for him, all before doubt and resentment and _fear_ settled into his psyche, a dark cloud as thick as sludge and spread outward. It became... so erratic, the air charging, bouncing, as it was now. Dean was being threatened. Cas would not question it. He never did and he would not start now. Whatever was bothering Dean was between him and his brother.

 

“It gets even better.” Sam turned the laptop to face Cas and Dean, both men leaning closer. “See if anything gets your attention.”

 

It appeared to be an article on the murder Sam was speaking of, only with less details on the murder itself, more on the victim's background, and no mention of the creature that did it; no surprises there. It reminded Dean how such a thankless occupation he had and how stupefyingly ignorant the public remained on matters of the unknown and occult. The sightings, murders and families affected by them, the fucking _apocalypse_ , Leviathans. He could understand people being skeptical of aliens because they have an affection for midnight human takeout in the middle of states with the population of three and all three of them are in the woods, drunk like they're trying to beat a record. But the things he sees, the things he hunts, day or night, location, gender, race, income – none of that matters. And yet life goes on, shrugging off the things they don't comprehend.

 

While Dean skimmed through the article itself, Cas knew exactly what to look for. “The location and date.”

 

“That's, um, right,” Dean quickly agreed as his eyes darted to the top of the page. OK, OK. The place was Missouri, in a suburb of Independence. Before he could say that the three of them were in that area of the state only days ago, he checked the date. “June 30th. Son of a bitch.” Only a day after they left. “It's too big of a coincidence.”

 

“I'm correct in assuming that a kitsune is another rare mark?” Cas looked at Sam, but Dean nodded, suddenly feeling very tired. “Do you suppose it could be stalking us?”

 

Dean hoped no one caught him flinching.

 

“Given our history with them, it very well could be.” Sam pulled back his laptop and slapped it closed. “I never suspected them to exchange info, being solitary hunters, but it seems that miracles are happening everyday.”

 

_It's a miracle Sam doesn't suspect anything_ , Dean groaned to himself.

 

“What do you theorize, Sam?” Cas leaned back, straight and at attention as his posture always was when hearing details of cases, ever inquisitive, while Dean remained hunched over.

 

“Well,” Sam began, folding his arms on the table, “it's still too early to go right to a worse-case scenario yet, but it is odd, right? Two seldom seen _ghoulies”_ –he tilted his head toward Dean– “attacking within such a short time of each other and one being close to our vicinity raises a red flag, but I don't think it's enough to interfere with the hunters already working these cases.”

 

“Despite–“

 

“Despite whatever personal interest I may have in one of them. I'll give Garth a call in a day or two if he doesn't call me, and we go from there. Sound alright, Dean?”

 

“Yeah, sounds great, Sammy.” Dean took a breath, gathering his bearings. “I don't want to fuck around with a kitsune unless we absolutely have to. Until we're forced to go on that path we play it by ear. Pretty sure that's not going to be the last we hear of a blast from our past reminding us it still exists so we all keep an eye out. Strange deaths, rumors, whatever. We good?”

 

 

The room was glowing in bleached artificial florescent lighting, reflecting off of metal tables, sharp tools, a rectangular wall storing the bodies of people they would never know, causes of death deemed too natural to be of concern. Lucky. It was too white, too sanitized, too bold, a set for a movie or TV show where colors are exaggerated for the lens, or a painting. Press too hard and you might cause a tear. No different than the hundreds of other morgues they've had the privilege of going to, but today it was just too vivid.

 

When Sam had first walked into the room, after bypassing the kid who couldn't have been old enough to vote yet at the front desk of the building, fooled by years of smooth talking and perfecting false identification, he noticed the emerald green floor. Hell, it was hard to ignore for such a color should never be seen indoors, and a “Green Mile” pun tugged at his brain like a bad influence. He wondered if Dean thought the same; this was his sort of joke.

 

An ID bracelet gave them information the already knew: these were the remains of Justin Silvia, caucasian male, aged 39, 5'11”, brown eyes and hair. Stab wounds and slices covered the face, torso and legs, all cleaned and stitched, swollen and patchy purple flesh making the man look like Frankenstein's monster. An incomplete one.

 

Two punctures on the left side of the neck was all they needed to know about the creature, or creatures.

 

“What about this?” Dean pointed to the right shoulder, where the arm should have been hanging from but was savagely torn out. “Was that done before or after death?”

 

“All the wounds here were done prior to death,” Sam said while lifting the vic's eyelid. “The stabs, the missing tongue and eye here, dismembering the arm, everything while this guy was alive and breathing.”

 

“Poor bastard.” The methodology and violence reminded him all too well of a time when that was a performance he did so wonderfully on a daily basis and that too may have been considered tame and lenient. This man was fortunate enough to die.

 

“The autopsy report mentions the marks on the neck. Since the blood-work came back clean, suspecting a needle is unlikely so the source remains undetermined.”

 

Dean's eyes were drawn to the thick stitches holding together the skin at the shoulder, not done to look good but done out of necessity. The skin looked hard, almost like plastic. Would it be if he touched it, unrelenting like stone?

 

The sealed gash on his stomach... he did something like that, right? Years ago, shortly after Stanford, after Sam lost Jess. Sam was sliced on the side by a shapeshifter with a nice assortment of knives hidden inside his jacket, and who better than big brother Dean to slap a little disinfecting whiskey on it and seal him up?

 

A long horizontal line on the shoulder connecting the remaining arm. He remembered that one, but it would take a lot more than stitches to correct the wound on that girl. Crying, wailing from a pain that went far beyond damage that could be done physically. Dean heard her very essence, her soul, what made this lovely girl so lovely, pierce the air and every molecule that held him together as he cut downward at an angle into her skin, just below the shoulder, stopping before the muscle. A gentle stab down and to the side. And another. And another, making the wound wider. Fileting her like meat because that's what she was. Flesh and teeth and hair and blood. Their pain wasn't real. They didn't know pain. No, not like what he went through. Crocodile tears and a mimicry of pain was all it was, but Dean would take as long as it took to demonstrate to them what torture truly was.

 

_Libera te ex infernis._

 

Why Hell? Why Hell now?

 

Dean cleared his throat. “So a vamp attack isn't anything new. You're implying the new game plan is, though.”

 

“Yeah. I mean, look at him, Dean. Vampires like to play with their food when the mood is right, but this,” he raised his hand empathetically to the deceased man, “was absolute overkill. This is what murders do to victims that they felt slighted by, that they had contact with in some way. Normally you punch the guy, drain him, fuck and get wasted until you get hungry again.”

 

“You think our guy Justin here might have known who did this to him?”

 

“I don't know. But honestly? I would not be surprised at all if someone told me this was a completely random attack. After the interviews today I'm willing to bet on it.” He slid the gurney back into the wall and shut the small panel smoothly, confident in his guess.

 

Dean had to laugh about the concept of Sam betting. “What the hell do you have to bet? Everything but your clothes are mine and that's only because your giant elephant body would stretch them out.”

 

“I could always use something of yours. Long as I put something on the table, right?” Sam winked and walked to the sink to toss out the gloves in the waste bin beside it. He cocked his head to the side and pondered. “I was thinking, is your vinyl of _IV_ in good condition? It's a pretty old copy and I figured– “

 

“Nobody touches the Zepplin! Hell, I don't even touch the Zepplin and I own the damn thing. No touching any of my possessions. In fact, don't bother going on my side of the batcave anymore. I don't trust you and your elephant schemes.” There was no intimidating way to slide off gloves, was there? Oh how Dean did try. The hell with throwing them away, too.

 

Sam nodded to the door; their time here was over. Both brothers walked to it, Sam arriving first and holding the door open. “I try not to venture to the side often when you and Cas are in there. Might hear some things that will keep me up at night.”

 

“I'm willing to bet _IV_ ,” Dean whispered, leaning in toward his pissant little brother, “that if I had a gun, I'd shoot you with it. Right about here.” He tapped the bridge of Sam's nose, right between the eyes. “Now can we leave? The lights are fucking creeping me out in there.” Sam shook his head, still, after all of these years, enjoying how easily he could set his brother in any direction, usually in one that pissed the holy hell out of him. He closed the door behind them both.

 

Dean wasn't any safer outside of the room as the same lights lined the cramped hallway leading to the main area at the entrance, the boy not looking any older. Dean ignored them the best he could, stride a little more hurried, not to create distance from Sam but to leave behind a trigger to Hell. After all of these years it was leaking out of the confines of his dreams to his waking life once again. Relapsing. He could only hope that the nausea he currently felt would not be replaced by the thrill and the rapturous ecstasy he enjoyed while butchering and maiming souls in Hell. This Dean was not that Dean. That was never Dean. That one was left in the Pit, shattered like glass when Cas gripped him tight.

 

Did he ever truly leave? Sam's smile and kidding, Cas' hands in his hair and warm breath on his neck told him he was free, that he left Hell and torture and Alistair behind.

 

Dreams of hurting Cas not just once but many times over, a reverie of flames and innocent screams. The blood, the burning flesh. No. Hell was still here.


	4. What Is And Should Not Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel begins his own investigation in solitude and may be closer to the source than he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll keep posting updates until somebody reads this! Nah, I don't care, you guys are alright.

Modest homes aligned both sides of the streets, a street most likely named after a type of tree, the irony of which was not lost on Cas. Thick gray clouds that have loomed over this quiet hamlet for several days cast a dull shade to what, under brighter circumstances, would have been lush and manicured lawns, decorative and individualized mailboxes, rose bushes and geraniums lining front door steps, leaves big from summer sunlight and fenced-in gardens housing herbs and tomatoes, ready to be picked. Basketball hoops in driveways stood lone vigilant watch, nets swaying in a light breeze, the weather too foul for children to make use of them or any other outdoor activity.

 

Not was all desolation. Light brightened most of the houses he could see: a child watching TV or playing a video game while their parent was making a phone call or the babysitter checked up on her friends using a “social networking” website, whatever that was. Cas heard the quiet and steady hum of a vacuum cleaner to his left and delicate vibrations of a wind chime from a house somewhere behind him. About a block ahead on the linear road Cas counted seven vehicles inhabiting the driveway, lawn, and curbside of one home. The anniversary of day America declared its independence from England was tomorrow, so he assumed the amount of people there were gathered for a party tomorrow. Or today, though that didn't make sense. It was customary for American humans to host a July 4th party on July 4th, right? July 3rd might be important to somebody somewhere. Perhaps them? And so early in the morning too...

 

No birds chirped. The only movement being a twist of leaves and flowers. Desolation it wasn't; rather, it was isolation. The world moved around him, life continued. Day would turn into night, the night into a week, a month, a year all the way until the Sun engulfed the Earth. For him, here and now, he felt as if he only observed these happenings. On the outside, behind the one-way glass, studying without being seen. His being here was nothing, changed nothing, neither seen nor noticed by anyone. Maybe that was for the best. As an angel Casiel had spent his entire existence watching from the shadows, not becoming involved with affairs and conflicts on Earth unless specifically called to, and whenever the situation called for it, he would make himself unseen to spy, eavesdrop or, as he told Dean, to long for what he could not have.

 

This was different. He was not trying to make himself invisible. No one heeded the strange man walking across their lawns looking as if he were lost or looking _for_ something lost. Were people too busy to notice or care? Sleeping due to the dreary weather?

 

Castiel was looking for something, but what this thing was he had not a clue. He knew neither its shape nor face, whether it was human or item. The feeling it left him with, a tickle he felt at the base of his neck, was the only tangible lead to go on. It appeared eight days ago but was ignored, thinking it could possibly be a result of Dean taking an interest in his wings again, tracing Cas' shoulder blades with rough hands hoping it would somehow coax the appendages to appear. His complaints of “It's not as simple as touching me” were silenced just as quickly as he said the words, a tingling spreading out from the epicenter of his shoulders, to his vessel's lower back to the very top of his head. A pleasant sensation, but not the cause of unease.

 

Sam's data about a rise in obscure monster sightings led him to believe that perhaps they were involved also, that the sensation affecting him was also being felt by other creatures and beings. Again unlikely, but too much of a coincidence. The irrationality of the attacks was also a concern. If an unseen force such as this could affect monsters in such a way, how long could it be before he succumbed to it?

 

This could all be a worst-case scenario, exaggerating something with a simple cause and solution. Angels, resistant to the effects of most magic, were by no means immune; a simple sigil could toss one to the other side of the Earth, weakened and disoriented. Castiel wanted to believe this, that befriending the Winchester boys had changed his reasoning. Assume the worst, even if it's unwarranted. Better to be over-prepared than dead. What looks simple to solve or take out is storing a surprise up its sleeve and you know what, it'll probably lead to the end of the world. So he could be overreacting.

 

Cas's process was simple: it was either good or bad, a yes or a no, do or do not. The result of his decisions have been either apt or destructively incorrect, but there were no second guesses and no maybes. He could look back on it now and see when that changed. Betraying the orders of Heaven, seeking the aid of demons, desiring to become god with pure intent, and later, Dean. The quick nod of his head in agreement, a stab of his blade were replaced with “Why?” “But what if...” “Is this the only solution?” It was the free will humans spoke of, the boys even sarcastically naming the three of them after the ideal.

 

But it was so much more than questioning orders and _r_ _aison d'être._ With such a new insight Cas began to see his Father's creation differently. The world was still beautiful and the humans were still harming it. Living with them, talking to them, interacting and being involved with their emotions was so much a weightier experience than observing from his garrison. Humans were... trying to survive in a world they had little or no say in. Starting wars no one wanted besides the few men who could profit for such a disaster, atrocities and slander in the name of his Father, inhumane treatment of races and genders. Cas could look back now and sympathize with the people he called apes with such disdain. These creatures of repressed will and flesh and blood were no different than his own family. Only children following orders and when questions arose they were treasonous, kicked out of home or country, tossed aside like filth while they were once so loved.

 

Brothers and sisters were banished from Heaven because of free thinking. Others, like himself, self-imposed exile.

 

Dean, he thought with a bitter smile. Another solder of a father, and another casualty. He believed his entire life to be doing the right thing, following dad's orders. Kill the bad things, protect your brother. A shock to his entire soul, free will, turned off the imagined superhero projection he put on the man to reveal a stranger but at the same time knew so intimately. He was not a man to be idolized, to mold your life after. Dad was a drunk. Dad forced Dean to raise Sammy while he sometimes hunted, drank himself into unconsciousness, slept with women he could not remember hours later. Dad beat Dean until blood flowed, well into his adult years. Dad never said “I love you,” only “That's not good enough” or “You're a goddamn idiot!” A Dad who watched his eldest son not only lose his childhood once with the death of his mother, but again and again with every passing day.

 

Castiel never told Dean the full extent of his knowledge of his childhood, that he knew Dean, an incandescent wisp of a soul, before he had a body, watching him everyday until it was time. Saying it like that made it appear romantic in a way but at the time it was anything but. Get the stubborn oaf to agree to Micheal and be back home in time for war. Being with him and Sam, watching them converse and laugh and cry and kill, soothing the nightmares in Dean's head as he tried to sleep... They were just like him, trying to survive a life with an absent father, becoming, in the process, men worthy of praise.

 

Honorable.

 

The virtue bit hard in his mind, a taunt from deep within. No. He would not think about this now. Torment and loathing could wait. Waxing sympathetic did not help him to find the itch he could not scratch.

 

What led Castiel here to this specific location was what could be likened to a spectral scent trail, as he had learned after visiting the motel in Missouri the boys had stayed in mere days ago. Normally Cas would not pass on field work, growing more confident if not still embarrassingly blunt while speaking to law enforcement, civilians, and... people. People in general. This is not to say he didn't comprehend the gravity of the task at hand, nor was he uncaring for the suffering of the victims and their family. Proper delivery, a more natural flow of speech, would be difficult to learn quickly after lifetimes of reporting to superiors. Clipped, emotionless, and straight to the heart of the matter was his only diction. While this made it somewhat easier to talk to some people in civic jobs, he still lacked a certain something. To be more personable he would try to add in some type of reference: something he had heard on TV, a song lyric from Dean's music, a passage from a book he was reading. It would only make things worse and thankfully Sam or Dean would smooth the conversation into more stable territory.

 

Dean had looked surprised when he turned down the opportunity to further practice. In fact, the entire morning Dean had been observing him with an analytical eye. His human did tend to stare longer than he needed to most days, although Cas guessed it was for conformation: to allow his mind to conclude that, indeed, Castiel slept beside him that night or had just kissed him and it really _really_ happened.

 

This morning was not normal. He saw wariness, scrutiny and concern. For what reason? Perhaps he had a nightmare that was about him and was reluctant to talk about it, as Dean often was. The symptoms Dean normally showed during an unpleasant dream were not there so he hesitated to wake him. So instead he let Dean wake naturally. He looked so exhausted, near sickly. He even had a waking dream, thinking something had happened to Cas right beside him. His pallor recovered once he arose but Cas remained never the less unsettled.

 

Was whatever that was burdening Cas also doing so to Dean? According to his own theory, this sensation was only affecting creatures such as himself and not humans, but again, this was only a theory. Dean did not voice any aches or pains that may have manifested themselves suddenly, but he was not the type of person to groan about a headache or stiff muscles.

 

He would not tell Sam and Dean anything, not yet. Not until he knew more. What Cas was doing right now, he had no idea what to expect or what to look for, really. Should Dean be unwell and face a threat that would be difficult to handle even under ideal conditions... Cas could heal wounds, but not every wound could be healed. The risk was too great.

 

He would protect his human. _His_ human. Dean had been hurt too many times by him, all in the name of protection and love. Doing the right thing. He would correct the mistakes made. Every hour spent alongside of Dean was a commitment to this unspoken promise. To never again see devastating disappointment and tears glass over his eyes, or snarls of contempt cross his lips. He would make Dean proud, and earn his trust back.

 

Nothing of import was found in in his return visit to Missouri, the only thing changing being the weather and cars in the parking lot. A search of the two now unoccupied rooms yielded no results, either. The force was not strong here. Perhaps the presence of whatever work was done here, if any was at all, would burn away like a fog until there was no trace left; it had been several days since they had moved on. This may not be the precise location, either. The area of effect was quite large and at this point all Cas could do was land in a spot and hope it was correct.

 

Here was even more faint, the resonance of energy no more than the impact of a falling feather. But something was here and could still be. The thought of it being a spirit creature such as himself struck his mind. Form without shape. A force free from physical limitation going anywhere as it pleased, spreading itself out thin. But why? Just because it could? To observe the Winchesters and himself? To relay information to something else? Was it even hostile?

 

Could it be another angel, without a body?

 

With no regard to possible answers to those question, if something were still here, he was going to make his presence known to it. As Dean found out firsthand in Purgatory, Castiel's mere presence was a beacon for unwanted company, the intensity of his grace lighting the way. This, though, was unintentional. There was no compressing this energy, but amplifying it was simple enough.

 

With a deep inhale through his nose and a slow exhalation, he focused his attention on his wings. Spreading them out to full length with care, he then concentrated on making them visible, inky black filling the lines like water in a glass. They cast no shadow as they could only be interpreted as one, a visage of something otherwise majestic. But his wings were not only a shadow; they were real, just as much as his fleshly body was. He had yet to meet a human who could perceive the angelic appendages, even those who claimed communion with his Father were unable to view what they should be able to. The truly faithful, the loving, accepting and devoted of people would be witness to such resplendence.

 

With wings charred black and the ire of his own kind, there was not much magnificence and grandeur left to his name anymore. A detestable angel only in title.

 

Cas huffed out in annoyance, but used the repugnant emotion to further flare his wings, raising them above his head before sweeping them down sharply, twice, cutting the air, before folding them up to come to rest on his back.

 

Hyper-aware to all senses, Cas waited for a response. The air remained heavy with humidity, although a thundershower would be passing through from the northwest within fifteen minutes to partially alleviate it. No new noises. The vibration of unknown force did not lessen or intensify. Damp grass and the delightful smell of pancakes filled his nose. Apple cinnamon. In his mind a flash, brief as lightning, of Dean making himself and Sam a breakfast like that. A brotherly argument led to several of the flapjacks being burnt. Not wanting to see something Dean had worked on with -what was up until that point- such care, he ate them. Sam refused to make eye contact with either of them, instead focusing intently on his breakfast and fighting back laughter. Across from him, Dean stared with the intent of slamming his brother's face on the table. Cas did not understand why Sam was laughing, but it was blatantly obvious that Dean did.

 

Nothing was here anymore. There was no response, voluntary or otherwise, not even a pique of interest. He had expected it. Then why was he unsatisfied? It was for the best: his response to an unknown threat would have been what? Hope it was something he could handle with the skills and knowledge at his disposable? It was a risk, and one that would have to be taken eventually. To know the siren that sang to him, calling him and appeared to call him alone. Castiel would find the source.

 

He eased the tightness in his muscles and dissolved his wings out of sight. There was one more location to visit before heading back to the motel to wait for the boys, unless they called upon him first which was most probable. Tomorrow he would do the same as more of these areas of high energy displacement seeped into existance every day. Pockets in space appearing to follow Impala as she traveled across the country. The bounty upon all three of their heads made malicious stalking a completely viable option and although there may not be a threat, when isn't there? More enemies are made than allies and most of their allies are dead.

 

Waiting for evidence was not sound, but it was his only option. He must protect Dean and what he loves most.

 

His vessel's heart froze like ice in his chest, seizing before resuming its beat. No, that was... He musn't think about that. It was ridiculous, childish even. But it was true. Dean would...

 

Cas looked up toward the darkening sky and silently cursed many things, most of all himself. The outcome was only natural; Dean could not be blamed for the weakness in Castiel. Whatever pain he might feel was what he deserved. Wrapped up in the awkward affection of the hunter he'd forgotten the three simple words that would undo everything. You're pathetic. This was meant to happen. You ignored what's been in front of you since Dean was a child and now that it is to late do you realize. You are not unique. Dean will always...

 

No one noticed as the dark-haired man with wings black as a starless night sky disappeared without a trace only yards away.

 

* * *

 

 “The angel knows.”

 

“Noted,” the child dully replied as he plucked a harebell near where he sat on the grass. He gave it a quick sniff before laying back, absorbing the sun's heat. The sky was a picture perfect blue, insignificant cottony fair weather clouds dotting here and there. Green rolling hills stretched on all sides of them as far as these eyes could see. To their right tucked further into a valley was a vineyard, workers tirelessly tending to the fruit, appearing as no more than ants from this distance. Which reminded him, he'd have to try a glass of wine before he left. If humans held parties for it and dedicated gods to it, the drink must not be so terrible. France was as good a place to start with.

 

She stood over him, casting a shadow over his body. “Yes you have heard me, but the words have no meaning. And...” She shook her head in frustration, a bored look still frozen onto her face. “You gave me your word that we would not interfere with any lives save the two we inhabit.”

 

“So far we have not.”

 

“We _have_. Not intentionally, but the fact remains that we still are. The less creatures that know of our existence the less jeopardy we may find ourselves in.” She turned her head to the side, to the diligent humans below. In a softer voice she said, “The moment we made contact we broke that bond. We are... influencing them.”

 

Missing the warmth of the sun, he rose to his elbows and shimmied out of the shadow's cascade over him. “An unforeseen consequence.” Would her incessant prattling of danger ever see an end? What was happening to the demons and monsters of this world were events bound to happen in time. Entities with a hunger for death would kill if they were present or not. So they were a trifle more angry in the way they went about it. Was that a cause for such hysteria?

 

“That is my point,” she said as she lowered down next to him, head drawing closer comfortably, confiding with a friend. “What you and I are doing has never been attempted. We observe the shifts safely, unknown to them as we should be. As it has been since time immemorial, avoiding tribulation. But you, you want more. It is not only good enough to watch but to become involved with no care of the consequences not even we know.”

 

“How quickly you changed from 'we' to 'you.'”

 

“As I am within my right. Only you have presented the qualities of greed and recklessness. I accompanied you in order to retreat at the first sign of endangerment if you chose to ignore it, and with the rising hostility the creatures here have been exhibiting and the angel whom is now following us, I say we depart at this very moment.”

 

“Would it truly be so bad if Castiel were to find us?” He asked to the dying flower he twirled between his fingers more than the woman beside him. The constant fretting and bemoaning was becoming incredibly excessive. Could she just for a moment observe the universe through his eyes?

 

Her eyes widened incredulously. “Yes, it would be. Angels are keen to the essence of time and universe travel. It would not know what we are, but it would know we do not belong. The angel would-” she darted her eyes to the side, the note of hostility in her voice evaporating, “-see us as a threat as anticipated. Humans may leave us alone, but the humans you have chosen are unique. They would seek us out. No literature exists of our kind, although this does not mean they will not study us as we study them. And that angel...”

 

Oh, now this was interesting. He sat up crossed-legged and looked at his companion and place the flower beside him, eyebrow raised trivially in curiosity. “Does it frighten you?”

 

Face remaining blank, she could not help but feel a stab of stupefaction. Why would he- how could he ask such a question? Such idiocy and arrogance. What she knew, who she believed she knew, residing in a being of flesh, one smaller than she, was turning into something she did not recognize anymore.

 

With a pause that lasted longer than intended, she replied to the insult. “Castiel does not intimidate me, he is but a mere an–“

 

“No, no. I think it does. In fact, I believe we, not just you and I but our kind as a whole, fear things such as the angels. For all the power we think we have, we cannot use it. You see, we boxed ourselves in with rules of our creation, this sanction of interference. Do not change time, do not impose upon the universes. Watching, always watching. But what if we became a part of time? That is to say, what if we became involved with their history? If through their will or ours, they learned of us, saw us as a threat and declared war? Following bylaws, we could not defend ourselves. But we would be involved by then, existing with them in time. The rules, then, would not apply.”

 

She shook her head. “Not if we allow them to get to that point, which I do not intend to do. That is why we leave. Now.”

 

The two, the shells of a mother and child, lost to their family an ocean away, sat in silence, watching the breeze flow through the grass like water lapping at the shore. Clouds slowly floated their way against the solid blue backdrop. He had no intention of leaving, not yet. This she knew. Whether or not he was determined to make himself known to the Winchester brothers she could not tell; his grandiose boasting of imposing himself may be nothing more than that. To make her become emotional for the sake of showing emotion.

 

After several minutes of silence, she spoke reflectively. “You are becoming like them.”

 

“A human?”

 

She paused, almost amused she was considering it at all. “Yes.”

 

“You fear the divine judgment of an angel?”

 

“Perhaps I do.”

 

With a lightness in his voice, he concluded, “We are more alike than you allow yourself to believe.”


	5. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of parental abuse. Other than that, pretty straight forward.

This was one of the perks of finally having a place to call home: being able to separate still within a comfortable setting. Whenever Sam told someone that his profession -more of a calling- was a hunter, he could see in their eyes the imagery firing like a piston in their heads. Hunting, non-stop hunting. Kill this thing and drive off, dirt and gravel scattering in the car's wake, to the next town to kill some more. The look of disbelief as Sam told them that hunting wasn't always exorcisms and beheadings told him that he, _he_ was the bullshiter in this conversation. Not killing things all waking hours of the day? Sure you're doing your job right?

 

Along with, yes, the hunting and being a fictitious badass, there was also the not-so prolific moments of downtime. Waiting for an enemy to act first or just boredom between hunts happened, at least in the past, more often than not. The magnet the Winchester name had become over the past several years left for very little alone time, especially concerning demons and angels. Since Dean and Cas returned from Purgatory, these small moments were beginning to return, the in-between where nothing happened and they were all very, very grateful for it. He was pretty sure his brother and the angel especially were.

 

In the past this had meant symptoms similar to cabin fever: him and Dean were not able to leave each other's side for long lest they get that call from Bobby to get their asses to this place pronto, or one of them got into a bind, usually Dean wanting to put his dick into something it didn't belong in because God knew it was easy to dupe the guy when demons possess leggy brunettes and he hadn't been laid in two weeks. Simply, they got on each other's nerves. Constantly within eyesight or only a thin wall separating them. Hardly considered privacy. And with borrowing the Impala being absolutely verboten, finding other means of entertainment was limited.

 

With a home of his own, a room of his own and -God how he deserved it- a bathroom of his own, the stress levels for both of them were down. No longer looking at the other, wanting to shove a blade down his throat because they could not stand to be in the same room anymore; eating what he wanted to, when he wanted to. No more waiting on Castiel to stop doing whatever an angel could do in the bathroom and get out. Was he just flicking the faucets on and off? Staring in the mirror?

 

The nights before heading out were one of those waits. Although the restless anticipation for the drive ahead was now replaced by casual acceptance due to distractions. More rooms than they could have ever dreamed of having, a fully stocked kitchen for cooking on a whim, a library of not only occult literature but actual fictional literature, not updated since the beginning of the Cold War but honestly, Dean and Sam preferred it that way. You could not travel the bunker and not find a new detail in its structure, embellished symbols and markings they had never seen.

 

And now, Dean's distraction was Cas. Well, Cas' presence was always a vacation from the norm, trying so hard yet failing so miserably to fit in here on Earth, knowing the wrong thing to say at exactly the right moment. Not only had Dean taken him as a lover, but also as a student, even if Dean's own view of the world was askew. His older brother had taken Cas under his wing, so to speak, from the very beginning, when the angel's status shifted from “You're a stranger and I have to kill you” to “Alright, I won't kill you.” Since returning from their stay in Purgatory, they've had more time to explore this and beginning in May, a lot more time.

 

Dean didn't tell Sam exactly when they crossed that bridge to being more than friends. Stolen glances, frequent agreements and personal space being invaded regularly with little complaint told Sam that, yeah, totally May.

 

The three of them were heading to the eastern half of South Carolina in the morning after a call from Garth nearly an hour after Sam had called him, informing the eccentric hunter of their suspicions about the attacks and requests for any new news.

 

“You're kidding me, right?” Sam said apprehensively into his cell phone, more of a complaint than a question. A request such as that should have taken longer to get a response. Hell, _any_ response to death information should take longer than an hour. An uneasy feeling began to crawl up his body from the very bottom.

 

“You make the order and I deliver like Domino's, amigo. I don't like that I came across this so soon any more than you do.” He truly did sound regretful. Both men remained silent for several moments before Garth continued.

 

“So, you think this has something to do with you and your brother?”

 

Sam tapped the pen he was holding to a small spiral notepad on the table in front of him, more anxious than he thought he would be under such typical circumstances. “It's 50/50. With odds like that, yeah. I'm pretty sure we're involved. We can't rule out Castiel, either,” he added. There were many potential combinations to this morbid drama.

 

“I want you to remember this, Sam,” Garth's voice took on a fatherly tone. “When you or Dean win the Mega Millions, share the profits for your uncle Garth, OK?”

 

Sam's smile was painful, but a smile nonetheless. “There's two types of luck and you didn't choose the right one.”

 

There was the hiss of a pop top being opened in the background. “That depends on how you look at it. At the end of the day, you Winchester boys get stuff done. You endanger the world in the process and died–“ Sam could hear Garth mumbling, counting on his fingers “–a whole bunch of times but I mean, that's the point, right? The world is still here, _we're_ still here, you and Dean are still here. You guys are walking rabbits feet.”

 

“Lucky for the universe, maybe. That there's two people, well, two people and a protective angel, stupid enough to take on every demonic and hostile force in existence by themselves. We give them the opportunity to keep having good luck by absorbing all the bad.”

 

“Oh come now, Sam-Sam. Don't be such a stick in the mud. I'm willing to bet my sombrero that there are some things that have happened since you became a hunter that you'd never take back. Happy times that can only come from good luck and not the menacing curse clouds you think you live in.” A chair's legs scrapped on hard flooring and Garth sat down with a contented sigh. “Hmm?”

 

“Some.” _But not enough to justify living this lifestyle_ he left unsaid. Garth Fitzgerald IV, sock puppet enthusiast, ever the eternal optimist. Sam could never think poorly of the man's personality as happiness was such a precious commodity in their line of work, but he wished he would... _recognize_ that not everyone could adapt his outlook so easily. As hard as he tried to ignore the pain of the past, reminders as small and numerous as grains of sand caught a sudden breeze and pelted him. Tiny bugbite-like stings over and over again.

 

He knew Garth could not have had an easy life, but did he ever watch his girlfriend burn alive the same way his mother did? Become a junkie? A meatsuit for Lucifer? Could he ever know?

 

Sam didn't groan out loud. Not now. This sort of bullshit can wait. Anyway, it's not the guy's fault for acting the only way he knows how. He's help – a huge help. Consumer complaints are at the bottom of the “Helpful Things” list. He and Dean, as well as many hunters, needed help and Garth filled the position after such a devastating loss. The amount of grief and harassment he must have dealt with since then, if Sam ever found out the details, would make most men quit and go on a shooting spree. The new guy, the novice, was patient. He was worth his scrawny weight in gold.

 

“Well there you go! Some is better than none, right? Because none means nothing and you know what nothing is?”

 

Oh god.

 

“I don't know.”

 

“Not you, Sam. You're not nothing; you're _something_. A Sam is better than no Sam.”

 

Oh god...

 

Sam had to laugh at the absurdity of it all. “What exactly are you drinking right now?”

 

“Grape soda. Why?”

 

“Just wondering,” Sam grinned.

 

Dismissing the question as a side effect of dehydration or getting knocked on the head or something, Garth continued on to the point of the call, speaking of a rather brutal dismemberment on the East Coast, where they were heading tomorrow. Since no hunters were working the case yet and the Winchesters practically called dibs on anything open and suspicious, he called Sam back the moment he got hold of the info.

 

“So, where's the little nerd sending us off to to this time?” Dean asked as he slammed the Impala's trunk shut after several hours of restocking and rearranging supplies, and frying in the afternoon sun. Dean had said it had been a couple months since the mess of guns, bags of rock salt, scattered shotgun shells and ropes tangled like Christmas lights had been straightened out, although his brother knew better. Cas had found Dean's copy of _Cat's Cradle_ and would not be disturbed, leaving his significantly frustrated other to fend for himself to find entertainment.

 

“A town about 45 minutes away from Myrtle.” He handed his brother the notepad giving the location and littered with shorthand explanations as he passed Sam, retrieving a water bottle he had left on the steps in a futile attempt to stay shaded. With a grimace that followed the first sip, it must have seemed like drinking soup.

 

“The beach, huh? Come within miles of a vacation destination and can never enjoy it.”

 

Sam crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I never thought of you as the beach-going type.”

 

“That's because I'm not. Doesn't mean I can't enjoy the view.” He winked quickly like the god damn cornball he was.

 

Sam shouted down to him as his brother descended the steps. “You think Cas would let you let you check out half-naked women and not get pissed?”

 

A still hand hovered over the heavy door's handle as Dean actually took a moment to consider it. “He, uh... He _appreciates_ that I, um, _appreciate_ the pleasing forms of others and... You know what? The hell with you, I'm taking a shower. And for taunting a senior officer, _you're_ doing laundry,” he emphasized by pointing a black-stained finger up. “I did a whole lot of sweating today and after you're done with 'em, even my boxers are gonna smell like a spring meadow.”

 

He finally threw open the door and let it come to rest with a loud thud as he stormed inside, leaving Sam outside to congratulate himself for being able to fluster his sibling so easily at the mere mention of Castiel. Although Dean had probably not even admitted the fact to himself yet because, well, Dean is as stubborn as a cold, but he fell for Cas and he fell _hard_. Until he stopped fighting and denying it, Sam thought of it as his duty as a brother and friend to piss off Dean. It was so hard not to. The idiot was in love and one of these days, unexpected and out of the blue, Dean would slip up. He would say it: Love. And he would be a different man for it.

 

As Sam was about to return inside to begin packing for tomorrow, Dean opened the door just enough to stick his head through.

 

“I'm gonna go to that beach someday and I'm gonna look at all the god damn women I want!” he shouted with a voice that said the conversation was over, shut up Sam, you're a dick.

 

The door came to a close once again.

 

_Dean will change, but today is not that day._

 

The white lights from the city nearby tinted the sky with a haze, not enough to coat it but enough to block the stars from being seen. A waning moon finally making itself visible after separating the Earth from the sun, looking as cold as steel. After a scorcher of a day, the relief from the sun was pure magic and Sam could not waste the opportunity to enjoy it knowing the heat would return the next day, as well as rain making for miserable driving conditions all around. He wondered if Cas would be able to survive such a trip, maybe poofing half or even a quarter of the way there. Sam just might tag along.

 

Moths and various other winged nocturnal insects smacked their otherwise delicate bodies into the few posted lights outside the bunker, their tiny brains unable to discern between the sun and another bright, heated source.

 

 _Going against millions of years of inherited instinct, all for warmth and familiarity._ He drank down the last bit of beer remaining in the bottle. _I can definitely relate to that._

 

As he leaned up from against the hood of the car to retrieve another from the cooler resting on the trunk, he heard the metallic creak of the door opening. From the angle the car was parked, it was impossible to see just yet but really, who could it be?

 

Probably Dean, wondering where all the beer went. Sam stole more than was necessary from the fridge, but better to be over-prepared, right? It was a nice night, things inside and out were quiet – of course he was going to enjoy it and whoever wanted to join him could.

 

Castiel ascended the steps before pausing at the top, looking down at the ground almost timidly. Was he nervous about something? Or maybe waiting for permission. Not that Cas was one to respect boundaries, although he was learning to. Humans typically don't like it when another person hangs over them like a coat, normal ones or insane ones, nor do they tolerate simple things like entering without knocking. Cas still did not see the problem in this but tried to abide regardless.

 

After a frozen silence, Sam shook a bottle in Cas's direction. “You're free to join, you know.”

 

Cas gradually lifted his head and frowned... but just as quickly looked to Sam, his expression changing to surprise, recalling that he had heard a voice.

 

“Yes. Uh... I'm sorry,” he apologized to Sam as he took the cool bottle from him. “I, um...” Resistant to say anything, Cas twisted off the top as quickly as physics would allow and drank down the amber liquid in gigantic gulps.

 

Sam laughed and he hopped on the trunk and retrieved another bottle for himself. “Did I disturb a particularly naughty daydream?”

 

“No,” Cas stated simply once he finished off the beer, holding the bottle at Sam who left it hanging for several seconds before realizing that he was supposed to take the damn thing. Because Cas couldn't take the full step forward to put the empty bottle back in the cooler. Sam would have reprimanded the angel if he has expected anything different. Something about being able to appear anywhere with the blink of an eye made the winged warriors lazy when it came to the mundane.

 

A roll of the eyes was Sam's only response as he took the empty and handed off a new one.

 

The two drank in silence for a solid five minutes, Cas drinking considerably slower and Sam growing more uncomfortable by the minute as he felt Cas's gaze on him. He couldn't feel any intent in it, malicious or otherwise. It seemed more like he was waiting for Sam to say something, what the something could be was anybody's guess.

 

Well, _shouldn't_ he be saying something? Did Cas want him to... Was it still bothering him?

 

“What brings you out here?” He asked casually, beginning to formulate a plan to squeeze the truth out of the angel. “Haven't see you all day. Thought Dean might have had you tied up and locked in the dungeon.”

 

“Why would Dean have me tethered?” he replied warily.

 

“I don't know. Could have been something you did. Or didn't do.” The suggestiveness in his voice reminded him way to much of his brother that he felt somewhat dirty afterward. How could Dean keep that up with a straight face? So god damn cheesy...

 

Cas, as usual, considered this innocent comment more than he should have and Sam could see the cogs and levers working in his head, processing innuendo. The light bulb turned on above his head.

 

“You refer to the act of sex. Dean would not bind me due to that as we have not been intimate yet.”

 

It took all the the self-control in his soul to not spit out the beer in his mouth, as it did for him to keep upright and seated on the car. This was, oh god. What?

 

What?

 

Shock. Panic. Second-hand embarrassment. Terror. Was that nausea? It probably was nausea. He didn't want to hear about his brother's sex life, or a lack of it in this scenario and once the trauma of Cas' words faded a little, just a little, he came to the conclusion that what Cas said, it makes sense. Didn't erase the now vivid imagery of Dean and an _angel of the lord_ , his friend, rolling around in bed together and–

 

Sam moaned and held his head between his hands. That was going to be in his dreams every night until he died.

 

“I was too detailed.” Sam couldn't see Cas, but he could hear the disappointment in his voice.

 

He took a deep shuttering breath. “Yeah... Yeah, you were.”

 

“That was... personal. I should have known. Dean is your brother and... I'm sorry.”

 

Now Sam too had the wheels spinning and grinding away in his head, Castiel bringing something to light he thought he had forgotten many years ago. Was it relevant? He didn't know, but perhaps Cas did.

 

If Dean ever found out what he was about to say to Cas, Dean might run him over with his car but Cas, as his lover, deserved to know. Even if it was unproven.

 

“It's, it's okay. Now you know.” He took a long swig of the drink to work up some courage. “Since you busted down the door between courteous and scandalous, can I ask you something?”

 

“I suppose so.”

 

“OK. Um...” How would he go about doing this? Straight out? Skirt around the topic a little? In which way would Cas respond to better?

 

Head first and right to the point. Cas might get irritated otherwise and possibly leave for asking trite questions.

 

“Do you have any idea why Dean and you have never been intimate? No detailed responses,” Sam shook his head, “just simple PG answers.” He moved the cooler behind him and motioned for Cas to sit down. If things worked out as ideally, both of them would be there for awhile and if Cas were seated he would be less inclined to run off later.

 

There was hesitation.

 

The realization slapped Sam upside the head. “No tricks this time. I'm being painfully serious but I can't prove it to until you hear me out. There's some things I want to know and some things you deserve to know about Dean. It might help you understand him better.” He cocked his head to the side one last time before Cas guardedly sat upon the Impala.

 

“So, as I was saying. Why do you think you and Dean have never had sex?” Phrasing it like that made his tongue numb. What other way was there to say something it?

 

Cas' gaze went between looking at Sam and the ground. “I will try to keep it 'PG' as you say, but to accurately answer your questions I need leeway.” Sam nodded in silent approval and he continued.

 

“Dean is... despondent on that topic of discussion. I have brought it up to him, of course, many times. He is...” He looked aside again, trying to find the correct word. “He is frightened, but it's more than that. The look on his face and the feeling I get, it's more than just anxiety.

 

“He wants and he wants not, and I fear by not understanding him I am losing him.”

 

Sam smirked. “Well, I think I can ease your mind a fraction. Tell me: Does Dean sleep between you and the door?” Cas looked at him as if he forgot who Sam was. “I mean it! It's a serious question. Does Dean sleep closest to the door, at home or on the road?”

 

“I, um,” Cas stuttered as he continued to view Sam with a raised brow, “I suppose he does, yes.”

 

“Well there's your answer!”

 

Cas' expression did not change.

 

“Yeah, I guess you wouldn't understand what that means,” mumbled to himself. He continued more loudly. “When we both were kids, right up until I moved to California, Dean would always, _always_ , sleep on the bed closest to the door so in case during the night something with bad intentions came through the door, it would attack him first, giving me a chance to escape.”

 

“He sleeps in that position to protect.”

 

“Exactly. I think it's something he never entirely grew out of and even when he's at the ripe old age of dying tomorrow, he'll still be doing it.”

 

“Why does he have the need to protect me? It should be the opposite.”

 

Sam shrugged. “Logically yeah, a shot to the chest is going to hurt you a lot less but like I said, Dean's protective of the people he loves and that's one of the simpler ways of showing it.” His eyes softened as he looked at Castiel trying to absorb what he was being told, to tuck away for future reference. “So never doubt for a second that he doesn't love you, because he does. I think the problem is he loves you _too_ much and might be why he's hesitant to sleep with you.”

 

Castiel's face flickered briefly, like he wanted to say something and couldn't find his words, or he wanted to say too much all in one go and instead settled to stay quiet, looking at Sam expectantly to continue. Something like that would confuse just about any person.

 

“Guess I should elaborate, huh? Maybe it's because the beer loosened my lips a little. You have to promise me,” his voice dropped, “that you won't tell Dean I told you any of this. Not yet, anyway. My memory isn't exactly 100% and either way, right or wrong, it'll ruffle his feathers big time. Promise?”

 

“I promise not to say anything to Dean, but I must ask if it is worth the risk, if this information is as precarious as you say it is.” The beer bottle was empty at the point and he made no attempt to retrieve another one. Instead, Cas held on tightly to the one in his hand. Sam didn't understand why he just didn't lean over and put it back inside the cooler, which was now close to running out, but Cas had his quirks; let him do what he wants.

 

“You know what? I... I really think it is. Dean's a little difficult to decipher, given the circumstances and well.” Sam stopped himself. “You've been watching Dean his entire life, right, waiting for the correct time to make you entrance?”

 

“From the moment he was born, yes,” Cas nodded curtly.

 

“So you know a lot of the things that happened to him when he was younger. The fighting, the arguments with Dad. You watched and didn't–“ Sam flinched at the venomous glare Castiel was now showing him, blue eyes clouding over, now realizing his choice of words. Once his stomach returned to its proper place after dropping to the ground, he continued on, correcting himself. “I'm sorry: you _couldn't_ do anything.

 

“But something tells me that, even now, you don't understand why my father did that, like how he could be so strict with Dean.”

 

Cas looked down at his hands between his knees, dangling the bottle in a circular motion. The eyes that could make most men cower in fear were now unfocused, viewing nothing in particular. Sam could have passed a hand in front of his face and odds are Cas wouldn't blink, and Sam knew, he knew that far off stare. He had it, Dean had it and most of the people he had ever known had it. It was a face of recollection. Eyebrows lowered slightly, eyes still yet blurred. Cas was remembering in detail -as both an angel's blessing and curse- of every instance Dean suffered mentally and physically at the hands of his father.

 

At that point Dean meant nothing more than a job, or more precisely, a by-stander; it was Cas' duty to watch and wait and not interfere because it wasn't part of the plan. Sam and his brother were no more than pawns on a chess board, pieces to be used and forgotten, and they were treated as such. So Cas waited until the time to move the piece forward came to fruition.

 

Now, according to Cas, the sacrificial piece became King. Important, beyond all others, even his own family in heaven. No longer a toy to be played with or a tool to abuse. Dean was Dean. To have that reverent view of him now and to recall so vividly the pain and mistakes of the past, something Sam was sure as hell Cas now thought of as something he could have prevented, must have burned like acid on his insides. Cas wouldn't say it nor would he show it, but Sam knew the fog in his eyes. He was seeing everything.

 

“No, I... no,” Cas said, finally finding his voice. “As long as he wasn't killed, the severity of the episodes were not important.” The slight change of tone spoke volumes of the disgust he felt towards himself.

 

“That's what I'm getting at. To understand Dean as an adult, you have to know firsthand what his childhood was like. It's like that for just about everyone on this planet. The past might not create you in its image, but it definitely shapes you.”

 

Cas only nodded, looking far away, lost in thought. That wouldn't do at all; Cas _needs_ to pay attention. Sam gripped Cas's shoulder firmly and shook, hoping to knock the angel back to reality.

 

“I know you feel guilty and I do, too. Dean got the brunt of Dad's anger and me? Got off easy, every time. I was the baby who didn't know any better and had to be protected. I do something wrong and, god help me...” He looked up to the sky and sighed, in his mind scolding the past version of himself and Dean, questioning the motivation for either of them. “Half the time he'd take the blame. He had every chance to finally, _finally_ , get revenge on his burden. The idiot never did.”

 

“Dean has not changed much,” Cas said quietly.

 

“No, he hasn't,” Sam laughed sourly.

 

Crickets filled the void of their silence with song, the moths still vainly flying toward the light in a frenzy. The two of them remained that way for what?– three, four minutes? It felt much longer. Sam didn't bother checking his watch. Cas was typically the soft spoken type so he understood why he might not want to speak, but Sam... This was his story, wasn't it? His hypothesis, his theory, that he was willing to bet his life on was true. The angels didn't need to send him back in time for this. Cas is still here, waiting or lost in thought or both. This is what he wanted.

 

But how to start?

 

No bullshit. Don't wait around any longer.

 

With no introduction, no deep breath or prayer for this to remain between the two of them for all time, Sam began.

 

* * *

 

 

A couple of years ago I recall you saying something like “I'm indifferent to sexual orientation” and I really do believe that. You see the soul first, ask questions later. But I'm sure since you arrived on Earth you've noticed that, especially here in America, that it's not the same for everyone else. I'm also sure that you've watched from heaven and seen what a struggle it's been, I mean, not just in the 20th and 21st centuries, but for millennia for people with a different sexual orientation and even sexual identity. It's not even until recently that they have been recognized as human beings. Still given less rights than corporations, but hey, now we recognize that gay people exist. That's _progress_.

 

The younger generations have been more open to equality and civil rights, although few of them hold the political power to make changes. The ones that can refuse and give a lot of excuses for their beliefs, one I'm sure you're very familiar with. That doesn't mean all who are against homosexuality are religious, but I'd be lying if I said that wasn't a huge part of it.

 

I guess the category of “something else” is where my father falls into. Oh, don't get me wrong, though. You know as well as I do that Dean isn't into only men. But... I guess I've always suspected he was bisexual. Suspected because I was young and didn't know anything about sex or the complexities of adult relationships. Mom loves Dad, girls are weird, and that's as far as it goes.

 

Dean, he... hell, I don't even know how to put this. He... He treated boys his age similar to the girls. Being a flirt was something he always did, even as a pre-teen. I think he's a damn cornball most of the time, but others fall for him. He treated them in a way that my own friends and I didn't. I'd think, “Dean's more mature and has mature friends so of course he's going to act differently than I would, goofing off with my friends.”

 

His friends, the few that he had, shit, the few that we _both_ had, we different, naturally. That's all they were to him; not every friendship leads to a relationship. But there would be people we'd meet from being on the road, young and old, he would be a little too affectionate with. Long eye contact, a coy word, a brief touch. Things like that.

 

Sex was something he wasn't after yet, as least he told me as much. Around puberty, you're on that cusp between not noticing a potential partner and having your entire world revolve around them. Your voice is changing, your body's changing. You be thankful angels never have to go through it. But anyway, Dean flirted for the attention early on and in the process was figuring out what he wanted, that acting that way with a guy or speaking that way with a guy wasn't bad. It was enjoyable and I'm sure he didn't see that harm in it.

 

Dad must have seen it differently.

 

All the times I would ask him “What happened to your eye?” or “Why is your lip bleeding?” and he'd give me some excuse, and I would believe him. Every time. Dad, no, he would never hit Dean. He couldn't. I never heard him. I never saw him. Dean would have accidents, simple as that. It happens.

 

Dean told me only a few years ago that Dad would hit him over things like mistakes I made, mistakes he made, but even then I knew it was more than what he was telling me. The frequency I'd find bruises and cuts and bumps, there had to be more to it. It was like Dad was finding excuses. Anything that went wrong or, or if he was having a bad day, remembering things he'd rather forget, there was Dean to act the scapegoat.

 

Once I figured out you and him were a thing, it got me thinking about then, right around the time Dean became a teenager.

 

The change was so quick I didn't even notice. I can recall the time when he was around 13 that the flirting with guys just stopped. Absolutely. He ignored them completely and his advances toward women became aggressive, so far beyond the lines of a tongue-in-cheek comment and straight into sexual advances. It was a fucking blitzkrieg. Non-stop, every girl he would meet. Almost like he was making up for something, you know?

 

I guess Dad literally beat it into his head. If I could notice, he had to.

 

I know I'm painting my dad to be vicious and brutish here but I know, I just know, he wasn't like that. When Mom died, a switch flipped off somewhere in his head. He changed. He lost hope, I guess, and focused solely on revenge. It mutated him into something my mother wouldn't recognize. It... kills me to think of what she saw, wherever she is. To watch the man she fell in love with change so drastically must break her heart.

 

Dean remembers and I'm sure _that_ was the side he idolized, not the Dad I grew up with. So no matter what he did to him, he deserved it. Dad was a superhero; he knew what he was doing. He's only trying to help. So... Dean really did think there was something wrong with himself.

 

But he changed again when he met you, or when you two became more friendly, to be specific. When Dad died, after the shock wore off, Dean was able to be Dean again. No more living up to expectations, no more being treated like crap, looking for a kind word that he'd never get. It was a weight off. You, though, you... I don't even know how to put it. You, by being with us, made him more open again, kinda like before he became a teenager. He stopped sleeping around as much, even started acting all flirty and I don't think he even notices. It was fun again and not something he had to do.

 

Somewhere along the way he started to see you as more than a friend and even now it scares the hell out of him. I think he still hears Dad in the back of his mind, berating him and scolding him. Now I know it's not as simple as that, saying “Oh, that's his problem” and nothing else could be interfering, but I'd say that's a pretty big issue. Every time he'd look at you, every time he _looks_ at you, he hears Dad. He's dead and they're still arguing.

 

So remember that any time he's a little curt with you or says something that might offend you, he's dealing with a whole hell of a lot of things and doesn't mean a word. We both know he's an emotional guy. Being a little rough is one of the only ways he knows how to show love, especially to you. I know it's taxing and you might wonder if it's worth it, but trust me: it is.

 

* * *

 

 

“To go against Dad's word and rebel,” he said with a chuckle, “he _must_ love you. But I guess you already know what that's like, huh?”

 

No sooner than when Sam stopped talking, Cas asked, “Why are you really telling me this?”

 

Sam was a little confounded. His reply to such an epiphany was not related to it at all and instead questioned his integrity. What is the angel thinking?

 

“What's that supposed to mean?” Sam blurted out.

 

Cas sighed. “There are times I wonder how you feel towards me. You can be... hostile.” Steel eyes stared into Sam's own. “What do you have to gain?”

 

Hostile? Gain? What is this about?

 

“Oh... Oh, shit,” he said aloud unintentionally.

 

He knew exactly what Cas was talking about. In the past he had said some pretty thoughtless things to Cas and he hoped the angel would just let it be, to take a snide and back-handed comment like he usually did. His kind does not forget. Cas could recall every word. Right now was his opportunity to bring it up and Sam was certainly not prepared for it, nor could he walk away without getting cornered.

 

“Cas, man... This could become really awkward and I'm not sure this is the best time.”

 

“This is the most felicitous time, Sam,” Cas said sternly. “If you can speak about Dean openly behind his back, you can answer my questions, in any manner you choose.”

 

“I have answers, but I'm not... damnit.” He pinched his nose, debating with himself. “Things might get really weird between us and–“

 

“Things are already 'really weird' between us, Sam,” Cas pointed out.

 

Well, he certainly had a point. Was it enough?

 

“You really want to know, huh?” Cas nodded. With a groan, Sam simply stated: “You should have been _my_ angel.”

 

He expected the irrational look Cas gave him and would have found it amusing if he wasn't so maddeningly uncomfortable.

 

“What I mean is, I was the one who believed in you and since you were so focused on the job I don't think you realize just how excited I was to meet you.

 

“You treated me like shit, Cas. To you I was only the boy with demon blood in his veins, an abomination. Abhorrent. I dreamed of the day I would meet an angel and you...” He could feel the water collecting in his eyes and forced with all his willpower to hold them back. The pain was something he'd forgotten about, and not only the pain of being dismissed.

 

“Angels do not tend to be what most humans perceive them to be,” Cas said innocently enough.

 

“But I wasn't just another human,” Sam spit back, with more resentment than he intended. “You could have acted kinder but you chose not to. It was a conscious decision to treat me like you did.”

 

“This still does not explain why you are helping me. Actually, it makes things more perplexing.”

 

“It's because I never hated you,” Sam stated, become more exasperated as time went on. There was simply too many thoughts he'd rather leave unsaid and Castiel was making that quite hard for him. Choosing his words carefully was becoming exhausting. “I have my own internal drama to deal with and... no. It was never like that.”

 

Castiel leaned in closer, scanning Sam's face as if looking hard enough would unlock a secret, which Sam supposed was exactly what he was doing. Not only was Cas too close to him, but he was going into territory he'd rather leave untouched. Dean didn't need to know, Cas didn't need to know. Cas is doing what he does to Dean, stripping down his soul bare for scrutiny, but it can't be as harsh as that. He does it only because he deserves honesty, something Dean cannot be without becoming tenaciously resistant He's invading and it's so uncomfortable, Cas, please...

 

“Knock it off, Cas. You're looking right through me. We don't tend to like it when–“

 

“You're jealous,” Cas declared guilelessly, in a tone no different than commenting on the weather. Well, Cas could be on fire and that's what he'd still sound like. It wasn't like he insinuated that he was jealous of his own brother's relationship. No. Just another breath. Another sunrise. Another baby born. Completely natural and mundane.

 

Sam wanted to laugh in Cas's face, to find it positively uproarious that Cas could be so comical, not to mention idiotic and uninformed. He wanted to look him in the eye and say “That's possibly the most ridiculous thing you've ever said in the long history of ridiculous things you've ever said,” but it wasn't.

 

In a way, Cas was correct. There was no point in trying to conceal the truth from him because he already _knew_ the truth. Cas could go under, over and around any mental blocks anyone dare try to put up because the soul was a different entity entirely: something vulnerable and naked. Yeah, Castiel could see the truth in everyone. Honesty. He may not know how to interpret the information, but having someone with that ability use it on you was invasive and terrifying and intense. Being stripped at your very core, a spotlight directly upon you, emotions buried under layers of justification or shame.

 

Sam repeatedly opened and closed his mouth like a fish starved of air, trying to say something back and failing. How could... How do... What happens now? How do you answer something like that. Well, the answer was already given; showing his work would be much more difficult.

 

“I... It's...” Sam groaned before caving. “I'm not jealous of you two. In fact, I'm elated that Dean seems to be his old self when he's with you. You know; he laughs a lot more. I'm envious of -and I know how bizarre this sounds so just stick with me- I'm envious of how he,” he mumbled off, beginning to flush with discomfort, “...how he lucked out.”

 

The look of utter confusion on Cas' face, head tilting, eyes darting to the side, made Sam yell out. “See! I told you it was weird and that's why I didn't want to talk about it! But you had to press and now I feel guilty and a little dirty.”

 

“Be quiet and elaborate.”

 

“Um...”

 

Sam could not argue with the fierce glare. And to think that's how Cas looked on a pleasant day. How could such a man-child be so intimidating?

 

“Dean fell in love with an _angel_ , and an angel fell in love with him. He found something immortal that didn't want to kill him and he returned the sentiment mutually. Humans are frail. It doesn't take much effort to kill us, but creatures like you -immortals- are durable. People we love have a tendency to die and someone like you, the chance of getting hurt goes down.”

 

Cas nodded. “So you envy Dean because he partnered with a non-hostile immortal.”

 

“You could say that, yeah.” He rubbed his eyes; suddenly, he was exceedingly tired.

 

Much to Sam's surprise, Cas stood up and looked down to him almost sadly. What had happened to him in the brief span of time? How quickly he drew inward made Sam question if it happened at all. He knew pleading and badgering Cas for an answer would lead him nowhere; questioning didn't work like that with beings that could teleport.

 

With arms drawn tensely at his sides, Cas managed to say “I wish I could see this circumstance with the same perspective as you” before vanishing, leaving Sam with his hand raised to keep Cas with him and grasping only air instead of a rough tan coat.

 

Sam couldn't figure out what had just happened. What did he say that, for the first time he could recall, hurt the angel instead of angering him. Was it something about being immortal? What could be wrong with that?

 

Of all the time for Dean to not make an appearance to check up on him or Cas, it had to be tonight. He better have a damn good excuse. Better not be napping.


	6. In The Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's imaginary torture in this chapter. You could consider this graphic, although I imagine SPN fans have the stomach for this sort of thing.

“OK, then,” Dean said with a huff as he took a seat on the driver's side of his car, slamming the door shut as Sam did the same beside him. “Something's definitely not right with the attack, but so what? You think this is related to us somehow?”

 

“Well, when was the last time we were in this state?”

 

“Years, easy. The two of us must've been kids.” The eldest brother shook his head. “But these vics are from places we've been to within a month. Doesn't fit the pattern.”

 

“Think our stalker could have made a pit stop?” Sam submitted with a slight shrug of his shoulders. He too was trying to make some iota of sense from the murders and benign pursuer or pursuers, grasping at straws and treading on the thin line between realistic and regular bizarre explanations. “Since we've been there before, they might be looking for something. Maybe something Dad left?”

 

Skeptically, Dean agreed. “Since we're as clueless as Miss America applying for a grant from Mensa, your guess is as good as any.” He turned on the ignition and began backing out of the mortuary's parking lot. “My gut tells me that's not it, and I do have a pretty trustworthy gut if I must say so.”

 

“You didn't have to say so and yeah, your killer instincts have saved us from harm plenty of times,” Sam said with a roll of the eyes.

 

Before pulling out onto the road Dean sharply tapped the brakes, sending Sam chest-first into the dashboard and forehead knocking onto the windshield. The force was not great enough to form bruises later on, but the suddenness of the motion was enough to make him vociferate in surprised shock. He sat back in the seat limply with his hand on his forehead, rubbing the bump and a gnarl of distaste rippling over his face directed right at Dean.

 

“The hell was that for?!”

 

Dean pointed at the road in front of him naively, blatantly playing it dumb. “Chipmunk. Didn't want to hit it.” His eyes widened in mock horror as he gasped. “You weren't wearing your seat belt! I thought I taught you better than that, young man. That little bump to the noggin could have been prevented.”

 

“You know,” said Sam grumpily as he twisted to click the safety apparatus, “You've become a real idiot since you and Cas started dating.”

 

The Impala smoothly pulled out onto the road, windows down, black paint absorbing the near molten rays of the sun. Morning rush hour traffic dispersing, no gigantic yellow buses holding everyone up for summer break. Makes for a good ride.

 

“Incorrect, baby bro,” Dean was quick to point out. “I've always been an idiot.” A quick wink and click of the tongue; put another tally mark under Dean's name.

 

“ _Any_ way,” Sam lightheartedly stressed as he punched Dean's shoulder with the discipline of someone who had just told a bad joke, which Dean excelled at and would have been voted “Most Likely To Die From Telling One Too Many Hackney Jokes” in high school if he had graduated. “Where does that leave us? We confirmed a strange kill but found no clues.”

 

“Incorrect again.” As the car gained speed, both men had to increase the volume of their voices to be heard over the wind gusting through the windows, whipping Sam's mane in a way that was both hilarious and endearing. One side sticking nearly straight up in the air, the other side with loose strands pelting his face. He always wondered how women and Sam could deal with it. One day of that and Dean would shave himself bald.

 

“We know some vamps killed him, right? I'm pretty sure they're a not-quite living and breathing clue. Find ourselves a nosferatu and I'm pretty sure we'll find a clue.”

 

“Is that your gut speaking again?”

 

“Damn right it is,” Dean boasted with a self-satisfying grin.

 

_With that attitude, it's nothing short of a miracle we're still alive_ , Sam thought to himself.

 

“So, where are we heading now?” With his body temperature beginning to rise once again after being chilled in the storage area of the morgue, Sam began to rid himself of the heavy suit jacket, awkwardly restrained by the seatbelt which he not dare remove just yet, tossing it in the back seat, tie chucked over his shoulder haphazardly next. It wasn't much relief, but it would do.

 

“How 'bout we head back to our rooms and change? I see you're halfway there already.” Dean glanced over to the side as Sam tried to comfortably readjust himself in his seat again. “After that I'll call up Cas to see if he wants to tag along while we go nest hunting. The more the merrier.”

 

Sam hummed in agreement.

 

“What's that?”

 

“What's what?”

 

“You know. That... That humming.”

 

“I don't know. Is it supposed to mean something?” Sam inquired as he raised an eyebrow, becoming puzzled.

 

Grumbling like he too wasn't sure where he was going with this, Dean said, “You're implying something.” If Dean's learned anything over the past month, it's to never take anything Sam says at face value. There's a euphemism, a disguised joke, or a set-up in there somewhere. Dean knew his brother was simply having fun at his expense, and there was nothing wrong with that. It was the sheer amount of times Sam got the upper hand, him knowing Dean's vulnerable point -more often than not being Cas- and attacking, knowing his psychologically stumbling brother couldn't attack back. Winning without even trying.

 

A constant checkmate.

 

Sam merely sighed and looked out the window, hoping Dean's paranoia would evaporate on its own, and also hoping he wouldn't notice a hand smoothing back his hair every so often in small attempts at maintaining control of it.

 

Outside of the car, life continued. On the inside, as Sam thought of it, existed a place outside of time, out of reality. Even Dean had brought up the fact that driving down roads like these, quaint residential roads lined with trees that probably bloomed so heavily with flowers it fell as heavy as snow in the wind, the name of the family in a curly typeface on the mailbox instead of just a number, backyards in the process of preparing for the holiday celebration of cooked meats and sun-spoiled potato salads, tire swings hanging from wide branches – looking at these things from inside the bubble that was the Impala was like watching a television show. Images in front of you would flash by, bright colors and faces and shapes, but that's all they were. Nothing was tangible from here. That life. The life they thought was there right in front of them, impossibly close, and a touch was all it would take to reveal that you were touching glass. That life there on the screen is in another world.

 

This ethereal sensation was brought to Dean's attention years ago, not long before Sam went into the Cage, the threat of the apocalypse a certainty weighing a heavy burden upon both of them. After a dining experience that felt much like a last meal (neither one of them were hungry much in those days), Sam found himself immobile on his way back to the car, staring across the road. When Dean did not hear the click of the other door opening, he looked aside to see Sam standing still near the entrance, wearily contemplating something. After calling to him twice, Sam was knocked out of his trance.

 

“It's strange, isn't it?”

 

“What's strange? Everything? Sure is, now get in the car,” Dean said, slapping the roof hood for emphasis.

 

Sam walked to the car with leaden steps: avoiding admission, avoiding fate. With every exhalation, hope left his body. Instead of opening the door, he looked across the road again. “This is.”

 

Dean followed his gaze with a wary eye. “What, a park? Nothing too crazy about people walking their dogs and kids playing soccer.”

 

“But that's exactly my point,” he lamented. “Don't you see something like that and think 'I don't belong here'? Like we live in one universe and something only feet away belongs to another?”

 

“Don't have an existential crisis here, Sammy. Things are bad enough,” Dean laid down firmly. The pressure, the nerves were starting to get to him. Couldn't blame the kid, but Dean needed him _here_ , functioning at full potential.

 

Sam's lips turned up so slightly, still an emotionless gesture. “I know you've felt it too. We get banged up on a hunt and need to go to a pharmacy for some supplies. Two guys walking in together, cuts on their faces, limping, and checking out like they weren't bleeding. That's our universe. Then we intrude on... that.” He raised a hand to the small open park in the middle of the town. Though the day was overcast, people still enjoyed the space, grass lush from spring rains days before. Young children ran, not playing any game that could be deciphered by an adult, anyway. An elderly couple, both with hair as white as cotton, came to rest on a bench.

 

There was a point to that, and Sam was not incorrect in implying that Dean had never felt the same. The control he had over it was perfected over the years. Though reminders existed everywhere and were unavoidable, like many emotions, he went numb to it, addressing it and banishing it.

 

He used to have an analogy for it.

 

“It reminds me of a scene from _Reservoir Dogs_.”

 

Sam goggled at him. “What?”

 

“Come _on_! You know the one I'm talking about. When Blonde decides that he's gonna have himself a pig roast, he takes that long walk outside to the car to get the gas. As he's walking, Steeler's Wheel begins to fade out and you can hear kids, fucking _kids_ , in the background, playing. It's a bright day, sunshine and lollipops in California. You'd never know that only yards away there's a man being tortured to death. And that's what you're feeling. Now get in the car, would ya?” Without another word or gesture, Dean hopped in as did Sam, albeit much more flustered.

 

“So what you're saying is...”

 

“What I'm saying is that we're Mr. Blonde. Hell, for all the torturing we do, I'm pretty sure we are,” Dean said, as if it were a compliment. “We're walking death, like he was, and like you said, we're invading. Except we're aware of it; Blonde was a different level of homicidal looney toon and thought of what he was doing, murdering and robbing and who the hell knows what else, as normal. Justifiable, even. We look at them,” his eyes darted to the park patrons, “and see normal, universe A. Then there's our universe, universe Everything Is Awful.”

 

That was their life, behind the bubble, observing their reality and the one of the general public at once. It made you want to catch your breath, the sensation leeching up your stomach and sucking the air out of your lungs. Gasping, trying to find a lever to lift you to either level; being caught in between worlds would tear you in two. The hunter. The 9-to-5.

 

A killer. A parent.

 

Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath, pulling himself out of the in-between. That's not his universe, not yet. It was something he knew he could achieve again. How Dean would react to his life of ignorance he could easily imagine, but right now, this was much simpler.

 

“You and Cas are married.”

 

The hand that was removing his tie fumbled dramatically. “God damnit, I knew you were holding back!”

 

* * *

 

 

Before the door to his room could close, Dean's shoes were toed off and flung nearly halfway across the room on his way to turn on the air conditioning – until he left, anyway. With that out of the way, the rest followed suit, leaving his shed clothes in more of a heap than a pile next to his bag. With a gripe and a groan he rummaged through it to find a pair of one of his more worn in pair of jeans and hmm, dark green shirt?– it's clean– dark green sounds good. A blind search under the bed revealed his boots and it was time to head next door to see if Sam was was ready to get this show on the road.

 

A wandering eye led him to scan the room, the inclination materializing out of nowhere. His clothes strewn on the dull maroon-colored carpet, pants pocket containing the false FBI badge emptied onto the table in the kitchenette. A miniature garbage bin full of fast food paper cups and crinkled paper bags from the ride over yesterday. Drawn curtains filtered the sunlight into a dusty white. The air, though cool, was heavy. Heavy with what?

 

He looked from corner to corner, wall to ceiling, and there was... nothing. There was no proof, no evidence that anyone other than Dean inhabited this dim room. Absolutely no tell-tale signs. No toothbrush, no clothes or bag. Toothpaste for one, shampoo for one; that food the other day was for one. There was no trace of Cas here absorbed by any of the senses. His gaze fell upon the bed. Was Cas even there with him last night? Did this morning happen at all? Strange dreams, time lapsing...

 

Cas is gone now, to a place he did not say and perhaps did not even know. His shadow here was becoming a haze upon waking from sleep. Not here. Cas left me. He's gone. Intangible, water running through his fingers.

 

It was desolation, wasn't it? Cas' warmth, his presence, his smell; _he_ was being replaced with a loneliness more powerful than an angel's grace. Oxygen morphing into decaying smog, attaching to his throat, his lungs and amassing. So thick. It wasn't clean anymore. The strikingly crisp scent of ozone had evaporated in an instance. Bright blue eyes, chastising or surprised or flustered staring across a forest or an inch away from his own became an empty film reel. Stubble under his hand, tongue and lips against his own. It's false, right? That didn't happen last night. He only had his memories and those couldn't be trusted.

 

Cas, you're...

 

...A stubborn son of a bitch, aren't you?

 

_With growing agitation, Dean sighed and tossed the dark-handled blade, slippery with cooling blood, onto a rusting cart. The squeak from the wheels was all part of the charm. Good for grating on the nerves and increasing dread of those fortunate enough to be on the slab or chained up, because posture was key. Torture was so much more than the pain and blood and sweat. It was withdraw, the absence of pain when one was expecting it, keeping them on edge. A kind caress, a kiss to the forehead or lips after cutting off a finger or two, complimenting on how courageous and brave they are and shortly thereafter begin a verbal assault listing with overwhelming bravado everything the person has done wrong in their life. You deserve this. I'm only giving you what you want, otherwise you would have never said those things._

 

_When Dean does a job he makes sure he does it damn well. Castiel was making sure this session didn't go Dean's way._

 

_The knife joined many other bloodied tools – so many blades a butcher would feel inadequate, some plain, others decorated and imbued; hammers; needles for all needs and purposes, 12-inch knitting needles down to acupuncture (for more delicate tasks); rope; Cas's angel blade which so far has remained untouched; holy oil which he was waiting for just the right moment to use and the direction this charade was playing into, that moment could be soon._

 

_None of these things would kill the angel (could he use the angel blade successfully?), but that's how torture usually works, doesn't it? The name of the game isn't eradication, but admission or change of perspective, break down a person into insanity. When the threshold for pain is breached, vision coated in red and body a white fire, truths are told, the conscious mind unable to control itself. Dignity is lost and begging begins. That was satisfying, too. Pleading, bargaining. Hilarious. How many times has Dean found himself in the same situation only to have his torturer continue? Why should now, with him in the place of judge, be any different?_

 

_He grabbed a rag draped across the cart's handle, but once noticing the cloth was drenched and dripping with gore and chunky strings of viscera, he dropped it with distaste._ I'm tryin' here, Cas, I really am.

 

_An embellished sigh hissed inside the barren room, dark as the abyss save for a singular low-watt lightbulb hanging several feet above and away from Cas, casting an orb of yellow light around him; a spotlight, or a barrier that protected against nothing. The humidity was beginning to leave Dean's skin a sticky mess, pants and shirt clinging, but any discomfort was irrelevant. Water dripping from a pipe which didn't seem to exist at all within that small pool of light had been dripping long before Dean arrived with Cas, blanketing the floor with the slightest layer. Cas' blood mixed with it (once his slacks had become too saturated to hold any more), spreading it further and further away, the dilution turning the gray concrete pink._

 

I wonder if angels can bleed out _, Dean thought out loud as he took the cart with a lazy hand and pulled it closer to Cas._

 

_He looked exhausted. Well, he_ was _exhausted. This dance had been going on for what could have been hours: time is an illusion here. Dean had shackled Cas to the wall, timeworn iron embossed with symbols to keep his dear angel from flying away, similar marks which allowed to bind Cas long enough to arrive at this location. Back against the wall, his arms, spread out like a Y, were the only things keeping him upright. Angels registered pain differently from what humans would recognize it as, but they still felt something and that special something weakened them. No different than a human. Their bodies could be broken like a human. Was their mind so far off?_

 

_A bare torso displayed the craftsmanship of Dean's work so far. Red. So much red. Truly a miracle that the body contained so much blood. Every slice, every stab, was deliberate; nothing random to be seen here. Delicate paper thin lines carved lengthwise along the ribs, and upward thrust between then with a serrated knife, puncturing the lungs (avoiding the heart of course as one couldn't be too careful). Some he carved to the side, tearing and shredding skin and organs, catching bone once in awhile. His arms shared a similar latticed pattern, shoulder to wrist and perfectly straight as the angel did not struggle against it. The way the cuts gaped open as he spread them was positively intriguing; they reminded Dean of scales. On his stomach a small wound became much larger as Dean pondered what Cas's insides felt like. The original size could only envelope the one finger; a stab with a larger knife and a twist of the handle widened the wound, blood absolutely pouring by then. Three fingers was the accommodation, which was good enough._

 

_Warm. No. Damn near molten. Wet. Spongy and lumpy and slick at at once. The simulation of sex wasn't lost on Dean. Hell, he entertained it. A single digit tracing along the outside before gradually pushing back in. Another finger, and another. Faster, harder, pushing into and pushing past intestines and blood, more blood. Curling his fingers and pulling back so hard Cas' slack body lifted off from the wall._

 

_Languid patterns covered most of his chest, whatever popped into Dean's head. A prefect rectangle of missing flesh stood out boldly beneath his collarbone. That was his signature, wasn't it? An artist always signs his work. The edges were so clean, pink pectoral muscle a shocking distraction from the blood. He wanted to admire it so badly._

 

_Castiel, ever rebellious, just wouldn't give him what he wanted._

 

I'm really not asking much of you, Cas. Three words. Even you can manage that... _He delicately lifted Cas' chin up, brushing a thumb against his wet lips._...Right?

 

_Through everything -the cuts and the stabs, the punches and slaps, taunts and broken fingers- Cas said nothing. Not a word, not a syllable. Hardly a whimper escaped his mouth. He endured it. His face would tighten, mouth opened and teeth barred. Silence was the only response to Dean's ministrations._

 

_Dean tapped the bundled needles from Cas' left eye socket._ You don't even flinch. I'd be damned impressed if I weren't losing my patience.

 

_Cas tried to to take a deep breath, tried with what little strength he had left in his body. The tickle of a wheeze in his throat sent him into a coughing fit, red dribbling down his chin which he attempted to cover from Dean by turning his head aside._

 

Oh, no, no, don't you dare look away, _Dean barked, finding the gesture absolutely offensive. He grabbed the back of Cas' head and pulled back as far as he could. The good eye winced shut but again – only silence._ You don't want me to see how badly this hurts you. Putting up a good front, I'll give you that, but I can tell. I know you too well for this. _Dean got in closer, lips ghosting over Cas' neck, resisting the temptation to bite. To sink his teeth in, warm blood pumping from the severed jugular and tissue filling his mouth just sounded so right. But that would only prolong this game. Cas could break. Cas_ would _break._

 

_He released his hold on the dark, wet hair, Cas' head limply falling, and still close enough to exchange air with him._ This is killing you. Ya won't even look at me anymore. But I guess it's hard to look at me since I deflated that eye of yours, huh? _He groaned when Cas didn't respond._ Let's get this straight. This stopped being fun for me a long time ago. What I'm doing now is just... not enjoyable. It's feeling like a job. Something you enjoy doing shouldn't feel like work, right? 'Course not. So let's end this, for the both of us.

 

_A short sigh escaped from Cas, a phantom of a whisper._

 

Hmm? Couldn't hear ya.

 

_Cas struggled in his chains, frustrated he could not get enough air into his lungs to form words. If Cas wanted it bad enough, he'd find a way. He shuddered and tried to scream, which came out as nothing more than deep bubbling gurgles._

 

Can't...

 

_The tremors continued as Cas fought for control. Dean could tell where this was going and did not like it at all._

 

What's this 'can't' negativity about, Cas? 'No' and 'cannot' aren't the answers I need. Try again, please.

 

_Cas mouthed words, looking almost like a fish, until something came out._

 

You... Scared... Don't be–

 

Whoa, whoa, hold on, babe. What the hell am _I_ scared of? Not sure if you remember this but I'd say, oh, not three hours ago I finger-fucked a hole in your abdomen. I think you got it backwards.

 

_More coughs seized Cas, the sounds coming from his chest like nothing Dean had ever heard._ I won't... leave.

 

_Enough. Enoughenoughenough. No more of this resistant pride bullshit. No more playing the hero. No more playing at all. This drama has reached its climax. Dean had never lost his cool doing this before, not ever. Cas' insubordination was intolerable and would not go on any longer. He grabbed the angel blade from the cart before kicking it over, metal scattering across the ground with a racket. If Cas would not submit to normal measures, Dean would have to scheme up a method more suited for this angel._

 

_Temper getting the best of him, Dean struggled to retrieve the key for the shackles from his back pocket with his free hand and after several failed attempts to find the lock, he undid the clasp and held Cas as the broken man's legs gave out._ 'fraid you're gonna have to stand for this one, _Dean grunted, attempting to keep him upright and turn him toward his bound arm, which folded stiffly under him. As drained and mutilated as Cas was, Dean could not risk undoing the other arm: the binding symbol that decorated both cuffs prevented Cas from any and all uses of his abilities, turning him into a mere pincushion made of flesh. Undo the bond and who knew?– Cas just might have enough energy to ride on out of here._

 

_A forearm pressed against Cas' neck, using Dean's own body weight to hold this fucking hard-headed idiot upright_. _He seethed near his captive's ear:_ Know how much I hate you for making me do this? Even I have some standards because I'm too damn _good_ to resort so certain types of mutilation. But you... you can never make anything easy. Hard to understand, hard to tolerate – why the hell did we put up with you?

 

_Cas sighed out again, failing to answer._

 

See what I mean? God damn worthless. Only good for a lift and free surgery. Now here's the deal, _his voice changing, a businessman making a proposal._ You say what I want to hear and I let ya go so you're free to heal and fly the coop or whatever. This will never happen again. Or, and this is the option I'm pretty sure you're going to take because you're a fucking idiot, you gasp for air and clam up which leads to me using this blade of yours in ways that will make you scream and wish for death. You'll beg for option A again, but no backsies. _Dean pressed even harder into Cas._ Pick your poison.

 

_The blunt edge of the blade caressed Cas' side._

 

Come on, Cas.

 

_Traveling up to nudge his chin._

 

End this for the both of us.

 

_Though Dean could not see his face, the rise and fall of Cas' shoulders signified the struggle for command over his ruined body. Be patient just a little longer. He just might surprise you._

 

Dean, I...

 

_He just might do it...?_

 

I...

 

I still love you.

 

_Dean's yell could have woken the dead. The demons of hell and the angels of heaven would have paused in confusion. He didn't know his body could produce that sort of sound; the capacity to form words melted away and this was the result. Frustration and rage and incomprehension and failure was all he could see and all he could hear. This was the language that had no need for words._

 

_He grabbed a handful of slick dark hair and smashed his head forward, the disgusting crack of bone and snap of a broken nose satisfied nothing. With a hand drawn back as far as it could reach, Dean drove the blade down into Cas' shoulder blade and bore down, white light emitting so purely from something so unclean._

 

_And then Dean heard it, something he had been waiting for who knows how long. The vessel's body tensed as if electricity surged through him, head thrown back nearly bumping into Dean's own. But the noise coming from Cas was not his, as a man: it was Cas's voice. This is what Dean had wanted from the beginning. Cas using Jimmy's vocal cords to express discomfort or pain would have been nice, but this,_ this _was affecting Cas on a different plane of existence entirely._

 

_This was wounding Cas the angel and better yet, it was going to get worse._

 

_With mouth open from shock or whatever the case was, Dean didn't really care, the angel spoke to him. The ringing in his head was intense, the screams coming in all directions outside of him much like the day he first spoke with Dean, but that was all. He knew that this is all that would happen. There might be a headache later. That was fine._

 

Scream all you want, babe, but I'm still not done yet, _Dean grit through his teeth as he withdrew the knife and thrust it into the other shoulder blade, giving it the same treatment._

 

_Cas was spent. For whatever reason -blood loss, mentally drained, a dulling of the body's senses, maybe a combination of everything- he was not fighting back. The shaking of the ground and swinging of the light above their heads was an undeniable sign that this was effective, the crying disturbing all matter within range of it. Maybe Cas chose not to fight back, putting up some vain attempt at defense. Well that suited Dean just fine._

 

_The ringing faded as Dean pulled out the blade._ You know exactly what I'm doing, don't you? You could have stopped it if you only fucking said so, _he yelled, voice and ears adjusting to the silence once again. God, how he wanted to shove this blade right into Cas's head, the entire thing, straight through. Let him die and be over with. It's what he deserved and was something he'd receive, but not yet._

 

Dean _, Cas choked, maybe through adrenaline able to find solid ground for his voice._

 

Oh no, you son of a bitch. I don't want to hear it.

 

_Cas slumped his shoulders and was hoarsely able to manage:_ Will it make you feel better... to...

 

What the hell are you talking about, Cas? _he growled, pointing the angel blade at the base of his neck. This was getting unnerving. Cas was talking too much._

 

If you sever my... my wings... _He coughed, spit and blood falling to the floor._ Will that make you happy?

 

_There was no condescension in his voice, one that could have vilified Dean, made him out to be a spoiled child who just had to get his way. It was... pious. Sacrificial. Like... Like he knew he was doing the right thing._

 

_Martyring himself for someone who he would sacrifice everything for, no questions, no hesitation._

 

_But that's what Cas always did, right? His life for the Winchesters?_

 

_Dean was taken aback and almost did have to move away from the blow. Keep going. No relenting. It was all some sort of distraction._

 

The fuck are you going on about?

 

_Cas grabbed the chain weakly with both hands as the light glowing from stabs on his back flickered, as if something were being passed in front of them._

 

I don't know what you're planning, Cas, but you're smart enough to remember that your grace can't hurt me, _Dean said, lacking any conviction. He dropped the arm restraining Cas and heard the jangle of the chain as his entire body weight pulled against it. The impulse to do so, and to back away, was unbearable and confounding. What was he doing? You're supposed to see this through. Make him bleed, make him cry, shatter any preconception of love he had or thought he had._

 

_-I hate you-_

 

_He didn't want it anymore. God, he just didn't_ want _it. Why couldn't you just say it, Cas? Stop caring, stop needing. Let me go. Just stop._

 

_Dean nearly slipped as he continued to stare at the true nature of Cas, the illumination growing even brighter and turning near icy blue. A shadow, formless in shape like a mist, hung above Cas' head, trailing down, down._

 

_Becoming solid._

 

_Black like a void. A dreamless sleep, one that went on for eternity. The fine details had not materialized yet, perhaps Cas lacked the strength to do it as vigorously as what was normal. Tucked in close, covering himself like a wounded animal doing the only thing it could to protect itself before it succumbed to death anyway._

 

_They weren't opaque this time, as Dean normally saw them This was Cas unrestrained by the limitations of a physical body. Pure, raw. The gouges from the angel blade had freed what Dean wanted to destroy._

 

_In the blink of an awe-struck eye, everything was in focus. It wasn't right. Wrong. His wings were wrong. The shape was all he imagined it to be, but the rest was..._

 

_The blade slipped from his loose hold, the drive to harm and truculence deflating from his body in a heaving sigh. It wasn't supposed to turn out like this. Control, when was his control? A cocky attitude along with deadened empathy made him perfect. The only thing he could see, the only thing he could hear was his goal of absolute psychological domination. Dean had complete precedence for the first time in his life._

 

_Whether Cas saw it this way or not Dean was unsure, but he now had the advantage. He took control by desiring the pain, displaying such a vulnerability willingly for Dean to do as he wished. This was not done out of spite: it's what Cas wanted. He wanted for whatever frustration that afflicted Dean to be taken out on him, prostrating himself like a fucking martyr._

 

_He was perfect. He loved Dean. He was too good for Dean._

 

_Legs finally giving way, Dean sat down, drawing his knees to his chest and gripping tight like he'd fall if he didn't. The light was so brilliant; he could still see it behind his closed eyelids. Cas was so quiet, the wet gasps and wheezes disappeared like they never happened at all. A tear rolled down his cheek and smudged onto his jeans as he thought to himself_

 

What can I do?

 

* * *

 

When Dean came to, ever so gradually, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees and back straight as a ruler. When the ache in his lower back began to radiate from proper use, Dean hunched over with a grunt. As he looked up he saw his reflection in the inactive TV, the image fish-bowled. Something wasn't right. Well, nothing was wrong with _him –_ he looked as miserable as usual. The room still looked the same, the same as when he came in.

 

Wasn't he leaving only a moment ago? To go get Sam so they could call Cas and look for some vamps? So why was he... How did he end up here?

 

Dean whipped upright again when he heard Sam's knock at the door and a cautionary “You decent in there?” – partially from surprise and the other part being he wasn't in the mood to answer unnecessary questions. He cleared his throat and gave his brother clearance. Sam gave him no time to recover and assess the situation, but he was sure he could manage until the next time he could be alone.

 

Sam took in a quick observation of the room. “Haven't rung Cas yet?”

 

That's right. He was one his way to Sam's room, got hit on the head with a phantom brick and came to on the bed. Guess Sam got tired of waiting and decided to hurry him along. Just how long was Dean out, exactly?

 

“Yeah, I was uh, just about to do it.”

 

Sam observed Dean inquisitively, noting how his hand was pressing hard into the mattress. “You feelin' OK? Did I disturb a daydream?”

 

Eyes following Sam's own, he quickly un-balled his fist. “You could say that.” For the life of him, he couldn't remember of what. Dean's attention went back to his hand. _I was holding something, wasn't I?_ But what? And for that matter: when? Before or after the dream?

 

“No, I understand.”

 

Dean wanted to crawl underneath the bed covers for eternity so he'd never have to look at his brother's idiotic grin and stupid hair and stupid everything ever again. “It wasn't that kind of dream, you fuckin' pervert.”

 

“Who said anything about it being that kind of dream?”

 

“You did.”

 

Red. There was deathly amounts of red, wasn't there?

 

Sam pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows innocently. “I guess I did. But it's over now, so just call Cas, would you?”

 

Still wanting to hide away (or hide Sam in a hole in the ground), Dean closed his eyes and tried his hardest to focus on not saying something he'd regret. Not that his prayers were of the sappy kind. His brother took... liberties, twisting words and making innuendo out of them.

 

“Hey, Cas. Uhm, me and Sam wanna ask you something so get your holy ass back here.”

 

After a gaping silence, Sam snorted. “Of course he's not going to respond to that. Let me try.” He cleared his throat as loudly and dramatically as possible and got into a position like he was going to... Oh god damnit.

 

“ _Castiel, oh Castiel. Wherefore art thou Castiel? Deny our fathers and refuse the Winchester name..._ ”

 

“I'm going to kill you while you sleep. Giving you a heads-up.”

 

The angel blade. He was holding the angel blade, and Cas' eye was so blue against the dark red. Wait? Eye?

 

Sam threw up his hands in defeat. “Well, if that doesn't catch him, nothing will. You're still not looking all that great, though.”

 

“It's just one of those days. Something feels off. But I'm fine, so quit worrying.”

 

“Has something to do with Cas, doesn't it? I'm not being a jerk,” he quickly added as he saw the stern look cross dean's face, “but you _have_ been acting strangely since he left. And now he's not responding to you.”

 

“I'm not his god damn keeper, Sam,” Dean seethed through a nearly clenched jaw. “I thought we went through this already.”

 

Blood. It was everywhere. On him. On Cas. The floor. The walls. Cas didn't look right. Was it his?

 

“Yeah we have, but...” Sam was truly concerned now. It was normal for Dean to be snippy when concerning Cas, still being defensive about the relationship, accepting it while denying it was as serious as it appeared, but he was right: something _was_ off. He couldn't see it nor could he find a convincing explanation, a word to accurately describe the sensation, but he could see it in Dean even if he could not. Sam eased off. “How about this? You call him again and he doesn't answer, that's _fine_. He has the whole day to get back to us. We, on the other hand, will drive many miles looking for a nest while staining your car's interior with the melted puddle of what's sure to become us.”

 

“Yeah, sounds alright,” Dean said as the hostility drained out of his voice. He stood up and snatched the car keys off the tiny nightstand. “Not gonna contact him again, though. Doubt he'll answer the second time around.”

 

_You... Scared..._ Scared of what? What was wrong? What the hell was he so afraid of?!

 

“Fine by me.” Sam opened the door, letting Dean out first.

 

“You know, when you act this nice to me I get nervous.”

 

Sam laughed. “Don't get used to it. Cas comes back and I'll serenade the both of you. How does 'Wind Beneath My Wings' sound?”

 

“It sounds like me running you over with Baby.”

 

Sam shut the door after them.

 

Cas, behind him, an arm wrapped around his body, chest connected to his back like a magnet. Dean felt his warm breath on his shoulder, hovering like he could not decided what to do. After a moment, he lowered his head onto the pillow and maneuvered his legs to fill in the space where Dean's own bent. He could feel Cas burrow his head further under the covers as he liked to do. A certified chick flick moment: spooning was as atrocious as it got, but he could feel Cas and how comfortably is body relaxed into Dean's own. He didn't have the heart to say get to your respective corners, there's a penalty for this. Soft and firm and... he wanted to say that whatever Cas had just planned on doing, do it. It's OK tonight. I want you to. I want you to show me.

 

_Where are you, Cas?_


	7. Tombstone Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I get good news, oh, there's a shadow on my back.

The urge to call out to Cas tested Dean's frayed nerves all day and into the evening. He vowed to himself that he would not, that this worry was turning into an obsession that was unacceptable and the most ridiculous thing he could imagine himself doing. During their tumultuous relationship over these past couple years many messages went unchecked.

 

He was busy.

 

Sibling rivalries. Patching up the chaos and rifts between millions of family members was something he could not do simply, if ever.

 

He didn't want to talk or answer what he deemed unnecessary questions.

 

Dean could understand that. Some days he too wanted to hide from Cas, when he dreaded the direction a topic would turn to or respond to a question he was not yet ready to give.

 

He was hiding something.

 

Dean grimaced into the glass of amber whiskey he was working his way through, and it wasn't from the burn; no, that pain was a welcomed distraction. Cas would never do something like... like that again. The day when Dean touched his lips to Cas' own, saying what his voice could not, was the day he ceased lying. For two months now, the same look. Just when the angel settles down, strips off his clothing to lay beside Dean who's been struggling to keep his eyes open while they were being yanked shut by gravity until he was sure the warm body came to rest, or sitting so close to Dean at the kitchen table or even in public, allowing a +1 to his personal space. The near bashful look, happily flustered to share his presence with Dean would quickly cloud over, eyes becoming glassy and head bowed.

 

The guilt, the humility, the shame was so heavy in the air, so god damn heavy he could taste it, a cloud thick in his mouth. Cas would look at him, willing to let him inside the bubble, however little and however momentary. While one hand reached to be pulled inside, the personification of every doubt Cas had about himself was pulling the opposite way, and it won the struggle every time. Dean could see him relive all the times he betrayed him and his brother in his posture, fists turning white in his lap. Words that were said carelessly with no consequence.

 

He was becoming lost in his emotions, and so fragile. So human. Dean taught him well.

 

A glance over his shoulder saw a pool table minus any players, which was a signal that Sam hustled enough for the night; a limit on earnings had to be heeded unless they wanted to get jumped on the way back to their car. Not that Dean doubted he and his brother's ability to win any scuffle they may find themselves in, but sometimes an extra hundred wasn't worth the effort.

 

A one last sip from the glass and he raised his hand for another before heading back to the hotel. The bartender, a petite little thing, obliged with a smile. Dark curls atop her head, perfectly messy in a way that remained a mystery to Dean, silver studs and small hoops lining her ears, a loose fitting gray tank with hand-made horizontal rips on the back and blue jeans that only could have been painted on. Three months ago she would have been in the Impala and back to work by now. The girl placed the glass back on the table before being beckoned by a patron at the other side of the bar. Dean raised his glass to the woman behind her back. _If you only knew._

 

Tomorrow being a national holiday saw more patrons at the bar than a normal workday would bring. The same people would be drinking beer by the case-full by tomorrow, but that was still another twelve hours away. The man to his left, currently receiving the attention of Studs, ordered a beer and a cocktail (Dean could never identify that kind of drink... most of the women he knew weren't exactly the cocktail-drinking type, either). Two drinks, so... Yeah, right there. Two tables behind him sat a woman, waiting expectantly for her beverage. On the other side two men conversed over the drone of the music and buzzing of others as they gradually began to fill the bar – statistics and plays that could have concerned the Orioles game playing from the small TV perched in the corner of the bar.

 

More and more customers filed to the bar placing drink orders, others making the two waitresses work for their money tonight. Peering past heads and stationary bodies he noticed Sam at a table, chatting comfortably with... Dean leaned over in his seat further. Well, the girl was blond, anyway. He smirked inwardly. About time the kid tried to get some. Obviously some would not be “gotten” tonight as Third Wheel Dean proved a problem in any plans Sam might have, but getting a number would still be proof of a successful night.

 

He checked his watch. Not too long after midnight. Dean wasn't in a rush to leave; in fact, the amount of activity -movement and sound and booze- was a diversion he preferred. A day of routine investigation provided him with no rest.

 

The visions did not relent. At any possible moment, no trigger, no hesitation and no warning, he would envision red. Covering the walls of a room he had never been in, squishing and splashing underfoot when he walked. His hands, these hands, could feel warmth and and softness while touching nothing at all and all he absorbed from this sensation was hostility. The intent was savage no matter what they may have held. Fingers, specifically the knuckles of his right hand, would throb in pain which, after returning throughout the day, would leave him unable to make a fist.

 

Hiding the physical ailments proved easier to mask from Sam than the mental. Living a life of abuse, growing up with bruises and bump and scratches, made it fairly easy to shrug off whatever would happen to be nagging him now. Kick to the ribs? Take as deep a breath as you could without grimacing and convince the world you didn't. At this point he didn't have to think about it anymore, the game was seeded so deeply in his unconscious. The visions, though... Dean's brain was something he could not control. He couldn't **stop** seeing hell in his dreams. He couldn't **stop** Cas from seeping into his vision broken and bleeding, near death and blinded...

 

Dean sighed and took another sip.

 

He wouldn't call Cas again. This worrying bullshit, it was all in his head, right? Just a couple bad dreams. Absolutely no reason to keep Cas on a leash, to return to him on his beck and call. If he wants to be away for awhile, let him. For all of his ineptitude, he was by no means weak. Hell, he was better off alone than Dean would ever be. Cas would return to him just fine. Dean trusted him to.

 

Keep telling yourself that.

 

“You're lookin' a bit gloomy tonight,” Studs observed as she passed in front of Dean to retrieve a bottle – vodka from the looks of it.

 

“You would be half correct. If you knew me a little longer, you'd recognize this”–he pointed at himself–“as my happy face. But other than that, yeah... I've had better days.”

 

She passed off the drink with courtesy and returned to Dean, leaning in closer to be heard over the noise. “Nothing a couple more shots and a friendly bartender couldn't help with?” she smiled innocently. No tinge of flirtation was hinted in her voice and she truly meant well but tonight, like most nights, he did not intend to show and tell to a stranger.

 

“I keep expecting to see Woody Harrelson to walk through the door,” Dean muttered into his drink.

 

“Ahh,” Studs' head nodded slowly in understanding. “Don't worry. Nobody knows you name here.” The girl's stance straightened, a firm hand on her hip. “Most people want it kept that way. I won't pry anymore, but I hope that whatever's got you feeling down blows over soon.”

 

Dean wanted to respond with an uneasy “thanks” when two women, in their 40's from the looks of it, sat down beside him and redirected her attention. When Studs was free he simply had to ask: “No chance of you telling me your name, huh?”

 

“Hey, you show me yours, I'll show you mine,” the girl said with a wink. Fair enough. He couldn't place the desire to know of her name. Watching her work, a cool relaxed personality busting her ass tonight, dealing with patrons like himself, boozers and partiers on a daily basis, with an appearance so sprightly she looked as if she manifested straight from a Disney movie. A little fairy companion. Yeah... Definitely a Disney version of a fairy.

 

Bloody microwaves... Tiny iridescent nipples... Dean moaned and the bartender raised an eyebrow. Before she could voice her concern, a tall long-haired man came up behind him.

 

“Ready to head back to the motel?”

 

Dean eyed over his shoulder, not looking directly at his brother. “The question is: are you?” he asked slyly.

 

“I think my business is done here,” Sam replied with smug satisfaction as he leaned over to shove his black ink-covered palm in Dean's unsuspecting face. He jolted back a little in surprised but inspected the written digits on his brother's bear paw of a hand.

 

“Aw, that's adorable. What the hell are you, in middle school?”

 

“Bite me, jerk,” Sam chided playfully as Dean's shoulders shook from laughing. “So, we going or not?”

 

Dean nodded, pushing back the stool seat with a screech that went unnoticed, hand reaching to his back pocket to retrieve his wallet. After tonight, Sam's surely had more volume to it. Once he felt less distracted and disoriented he'd double down, earning for himself what Sam did plus more. Not necessarily to one-up his brother: Dean had to earn his keep too, no matter how sore or morose he may be.

 

Well, perhaps there was some competition there, too. He or Sam would earn X amount in cash so that made him the better card shark or pool hustler, which in turn would motivate the other to clean house the next night and boast. Lather, rinse, repeat.

 

Fishing out several bills plus tip, Dean slipped them under the glass and called to the bartender, who was diligently clearing aside the used glasses of others. “You have a good night, Name Withheld.”

 

“Same to you, Troubled Love Life.”

 

Dean's eyes dilated and mouth swung open in astonishment. Was it... Was it that noticeable? He thought he was pretty damn vague in his sensibility; what was on his mind could be any possible affliction. Next she would say “Mistrusting Your Boyfriend,” and if that ever did happen Dean would have to kill her on the spot because she was a witch and, as much as he like Studs, she need to die.

 

The girl shook her head, as if Dean should have known better. “I deal with guys like you on the daily. Now it's not any of my business to pry, but let me say she's either an idiot not to see what she has, or an idiot to not know what she could have.”

 

“You hardly said two sentences to my emotional husk of a brother and you already know his life story, huh?” Dean shot a glare icy enough to freeze the core of the Earth in Sam's direction, remaining silent otherwise.

 

“It's not what he says. It's...” She circled a hand in front of her face, drawing attention to the long, dolorous look that mocked Dean's own. “It's the shit you don't say that tells the full truth.”

 

Sam nudged Dean's shoulder with his own. “Don't I know it.”

 

With a click of the tongue, Dean moved aside from his brother, signaled a halfhearted wave to the woman one last time and maneuvered his way through the throngs of people to the exit. When Sam caught up to him he overheard: “She wasn't completely accurate... Least I don't have to kill her.”

 

Sam stopped, his face looking just as puzzled as his mind felt. “Wait, what?”

 

 

_Cas, I'm..._ He gripped the steering wheel tighter. _I'm not gonna make a big deal over this, so if you hear me it's just to give you a heads-up that I'm heading back to the motel, so you can glide on over there._

 

“Or forgo the motel entirely and show up in the back seat to ease my mind” was what he wanted to continue with but the words dripped, soggy and bloated, with desperation that not even in the privacy of his own mind did he find any ease with them.

 

He told himself he wasn't going to bother calling at all, repeating the simple and so easy-to-follow statement over and over. It didn't divert Dean's attention away from the investigation – at least that's what he thinks. Sam could collaborate with him on that fact.

 

Having no leads to go on other than “somewhere around this part of the state there be vampires,” the journey by car was fruitless. A trip to the murder site of Mr. Silvia, the parking lot of one of the many golf courses that dotted the coast, one he happened to work for, was not exactly in the middle of nowhere. Someone was bound to see or even overhear a man being violently maimed by a person or group of people in a brightly lit area. After several hours of eavesdropping gossip and playing tourists to ask questions more directly, the only information they gleaned was that the attack was random. He was a nice guy with no enemies they knew of, had a steady girlfriend for a few months and no new off-color friends, no drug addictions. Dismembering was usually a marking of a personal attack, right? What did he do wrong?

 

Vampires held no biases. Gender, age, race – when they're hungry, anybody in their way is fair game in the most literal way. They may play with their food if the urge to feed was languorous, but much like normal homicides, the more violent the kill, the more personal they tended to be, where relatives or friends were the perpetrators. Did this man happen to know a vampire or vampires personally?

 

A stop to a library presented to the boys that not a person in his family, from either side, had a mysterious cause of death, nor had they gone missing. Aside from personally going to his parents' residence or a tracking down his beau, there was little to go on. With the idea of returning to the hotel to retrieve their discarded, slightly dirty and, in Dean's case, extremely wrinkled suits sounding as appealing as dumpster diving, Dean suggested contacting Garth once again to inform them of the possible presence of hunters in the area, or maybe some that recently were. Finding a hunter that would willingly meet with the infamous Winchester brothers would likely make this shot in the dark all the darker, as the boy's reputation for the death and destruction of associates was known throughout the world, and the best way to avoid getting hit by this truck was to avoid it.

 

A call was made to the eccentric hunter requesting help from hunters who knew the grounds well, having jobs there in the past or better yet, some that have taken down vamps. Two hours and a greasy bag of fast food later, Garth called Sam back with encouraging intel. A hunter out of Georgia by the name of Roselia agreed to meet with them – as long as she would not be involved with the actual hunt, of course. Figuring that decision was for the best, Sam asked for contact info, called the woman and was given the place to meet: a park not too far off of route 278, close to an hour away from the state border. When questioned about what she would be wearing, something to identify her by, she facetiously replied that there was no need: it's pretty easy to spot celebrities.

 

The boys sought refuge under the shaded protection of a tree, Sam watching on as Dean appeared more saturnine by the second, wanting to comment but thinking better of it, until Roselia snaked herself alongside them with a startle. She smiled weakly and playfully taunted that their skills were dulling with age. Dean observed her briskly and responded that she was the same age as himself, maybe a year or two older, which she was, but Dean knew better than to say that part aloud.

 

Short hair framed a young face aged by battles and loss; a scar approximately 4 inches in length crossed the top of her hand and wrist a reminder of one of those fights. As he spoke with them, the unmarked hand consciously or unconsciously, neither of the men knew, covered the scar. Although she spoke of quitting the life three years ago, her chewed-down fingernails, gun oil residue covering a few fingers, spoke volumes of her not necessarily being honest. Dean, as he fought to deny it, saw himself in her. His future self, saying he was done for good, his body had all it could take and no more sleepless nights all the while keeping an arsenal of weapons on hand at all times, ever vigilant for the next attack. Try as he might, Dean could never leave.

 

She was shorter than Dean but not by much, worn leather boots going to her mid-calf. Her voice, while not unpleasant, was one of a person tired, one who had seen too much in too short a time. (“Textbook definition of a hunter” Sam would remark later on the drive back to the motel.) A silver chain hung down low on her chest, a charm attached Dean could not view without appearing rude. Words of her past were not indulged, as was expected, other than her purpose for meeting with the famed Winchesters.

 

Three years ago she and her partner at the time caught news of two campers found murdered in a forest not far outside of Francis Marion, the only evidence found were puncture wounds – much like the situation Dean and Sam found themselves in. A mile from the murder site sat a pitifully dilapidated shack, worn from years of weather abuse and human mistreatment. To the untrained eye of law enforcement nothing was found. To a hunter, well, bells and whistles sound off and red flags are waved when they get their eyes and ears on this type of information.

 

The two of them – Carter was his name and she spoke no further of him – traveled to the site as soon as the crime scene was cleaned up, and once the investigators and panhandlers had finally evacuated. Armed to the teeth and clothing dusty with ash, the raid payed off when they did indeed find a nest inhabiting the building. A surprise attack with well-placed rifle blasts through the windows and sharp-edged knives finding little resistance against the flesh of their necks ended the simple execution of parasitic pests.

 

It didn't make any sense to her that vamps, even after three years, would think it was secure to reuse the lodging of their own slaughtered kind, the smell of the dead must still linger in the falls and floorboards, but there was not much logic to their actions and kills within the past few months. Regardless, it was a nest, was probably still a nest and it was the best lead the brothers had. Whether or not these vampires had any contact or knowledge of the ones wiped out previously was a mystery, but that was irrelevant.

 

Taking a lengthy and thoughtful drag from a cigarette she retrieved from the small purse at her side, she looked from Dean to Sam, considering them silently before looking back in front of her, eyes focused on nothing in particular. Roselia knew, of course. Friends or acquaintances or whatever the fuck they were would contact her from time to time, especially concerning local matters – to be extra cautious, so to speak. They enlightened her of the brutal attacks occurring over the last month and the rarer threats awakening like bears out of hibernation all the while thinking, I'm willing to bet my life this sordid mess has something to do with the Winchesters, which she did not hesitate or regret bringing to their attention right then.

 

Yeah... Yeah, that was probably the case.

 

Why should now be any different? She wiped the sweat from her brow and turned around to walk back to her car, the expected answer still making her weary.

 

Don't kill us all trying to fix this mess.

 

_'Cause you can save the world until there's no world left, but you can't save everyone on it._ Dean nearly doubled over laughing over how absurdly maudlin he sounded... although he was not incorrect.

 

The ride back was not particularly lively, but Dean did bring up Sam's potential date.

 

“And when exactly are you going to go out with this young lady? Last time I checked which I'd say was right about _now_ , we have no free time. You gonna keep her waiting until the day we head back home?”

 

“If you and Cas can find free time, so can I,” said Sam resolutely.

 

“That's because we sleep in the same bed,” which caused Sam to stifle a laugh with the back of his hand, being careful not to smudge the numbers. “What? What's so funny?”

 

Sam shook his head in an attempt to say it wasn't as bad as it appeared, which in turn made a liar out of him. “Just the, just the look on your face. You looked so stern and... like a principal. Mr. Winchester stating the obvious.”

 

“Just how much did you drink tonight?”

 

“Nothing you or I can't handle. I'm like... a fraction of a percent drunk. Pleasantly warm,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Anyway, I need all the help I can get until you get the stick out of your ass.”

 

Dean would have backhanded him if he wasn't correct.

 

As Dean made the turn to pull into the parking lot, Sam craned his neck and tapped the passenger side window. “Looks like Lassie came home.”

 

Sure enough stood Cas, waiting outside of Dean's door and as he pulled up closer to park, the more confounded he became. Cas' hair was flat against his skull and his coat weighed down and colored almost gray, like he had got caught in the rain, though he did not drip moisture. With his head darting about alertly an a grimace set in his face he looked uncomfortable and lost, like he did not know how he came to be at this spot. The car's bright headlights made it seem almost surreal. (Revolting artificial white light, it set his skin crawling.)

 

The relief of seeing Cas returned to him was very quickly replaced by uneasy. Cas looked as baffled as he felt. It was that same look this morning, wasn't it? That brief flash in time between when Cas spaced out and he came back to: disorientation and a shade of resistance. Sometime between when he left Dean this morning and just now his mind left his body, didn't it?

 

A cold hand crawling up his spine lightly, carefully, penetrated his head and maneuvered its way precisely to the hair trigger controlling his restraint, the one that prevented his worry, his overactive and fearful mind, from becoming aggressively defensive. Peaceful concern melted away leaving an acidic trail behind it.

 

Dean flipped off the ignition and exited the car, eyes fixated on Cas who still did not note their presence. Beside him, Sam watched his brother's face transform, eyes soft with relief turn to a blaze hot enough to melt stone. This was not -could not- be the result of a lover's quarrel. Something was wrong but he dare not interrupt as it would most likely have the opposite effect of assistance. He shut the car door leaving Dean standing rigid behind, and made brief eye contact with Castiel as he passed to enter his own room.

 

Shaking his head to clear away the fuzziness, Cas turned finding Dean standing in the fabled personal space zone and at such a close range he could feel it was well as see it, radiating off Dean in waves. He was furious. Not from disappointment or feeling genuine anger toward the angel; rather, Dean felt like an animal, stunned and rabid, blind and disoriented. An emotion being stretched thin in several directions, taut and about ready to give. Cas didn't feel threatened, of course not. But he was troubled.

 

“I heard you call for me.” Cas hoped to soothe and not appear to be patronizing him.

 

He could feel it again, the slickness of blood of Cas' blood on his hand and the hammering flow of his own echoing in his ears. _Libera te ex infernis_ , a canticle ringing both clear and sweet but sliced at his mind like damnation. Now it was all he could see and he fought like a dog to close his eyes.

 

“This hostility you feel is directed at me, although I am unsure exactly what wrong I have done–“

 

Dean stepped forward, closing what was already a small gap and laughed through his nose, eying the angel's damp clothing. “I'm thinking the fact that you genuinely have no idea what's going on pisses me off even more.” He gave a firm tug to a lapel, drawing Cas' attention toward it. “You fly away to some damn place and I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't know where it was either, ignore me and come back near a day later just as confused as when you left. You couldn't tell me where you were just now, could you?”

 

A year ago, well, perhaps even less than that, this ridiculous debasement would have not been tolerated; Castiel would have simply left Dean when he got into one of his moods or stand firm, threatening a man who proclaimed himself unafraid. Due to that delusion, picking a verbal argument with Dean was akin to punching a shadow. This was... He was irrational. Cas was not sure what happened to Dean in the short amount of time he was absent, but he was clearly distraught. Threats would not work against someone unable to hear them, so the best course of action was to remain quiet and still, for hopefully listening to Dean continue would clue him onto what was afflicting the human.

 

And why did he continue to glance at his coat?

 

“You really don't...” Dean sighed. Not losing patience, but frustrated nonetheless. “You really don't know, do you?”

 

“I wish I had something to tell you, Dean, but I do–“

 

“Don't, Cas,” Dean's voice rose. “Just don't. I can't...” He was done; he had enough of Cas for one night. Brushing past Cas he entered his room with a slam of the door.

 

He leaned against the door, holding his breath, the sound of blood in his ears the only audible noise. It, whatever _it_ was -fervor, agitation, what-fucking-ever- drained away, down through his body and into the floor.

 

A deep breath in. He still felt empty.

 

His right hand once again began to ache.

 

* * *

 

Dean peeled one eyelid open, seeing only the flat expanse of the bed before him. The light by the exit to the main road thankfully did not brighten the room too much, but enough to see that while his bed was empty, the room was not. One unmoving shadow draped across the back wall.

 

Turning his body to face the other side of the room, Dean viewed Cas staring out of the window. Looking at... what? Nothing was the most likely the correct answer, reflecting on what transpired a few hours ago. His suit remained on; the coat covered a nearby table. Was Cas beginning to understand now?

 

He watched Cas for what felt like hours, both of them as still as the air. Before Dean could find the words, any words, to say, Cas broke the silence.

 

“Something's wrong, isn't there? I assumed there was before, so I...” He glanced down and then to Dean. “There's more to this. More than what I originally thought. What happened this morning and during the day...”

 

Cas looked like a lone man upon a stage delivering a monologue, the eyes of hundreds fixated on him. So small and forlorn.

 

“I lost time twice. It took much consideration to come to the realization that, that the last time I remember being conscious was what must have been the morning. I heard your voice and returned here and now, at this moment...” Cas faced his reflection in the glass, a weak smile at the corner of his mouth. “It's nighttime. Nearly 15 hours cannot be accounted for. As hard as I try to, I recall nothing. Not a sight or sound. I suppose my coat could be viewed as a lead, but it only speaks of me being caught in the rain; hardly a viable clue.”

 

Cas wanted nothing more than to strip himself of the rest of his clothing and lay beside Dean, speaking no more of their troubles and the sleep the unease away, waking up to a new day where he remained at Dean's side and did not fly off to a location he would forget, doing things he could not even imagine. Where Dean would josh him for deadpan comebacks or his ignorance, yet inch closer like he never wanted Cas to stop. Things like that happened, didn't they? That wasn't something he imagine?

 

Yes. He knew that for a fact. Certain feelings and sensations could not be faked. A hand brushing his; the warmth of Dean's body; a wet tongue tracing his own. Most importantly, the strongest of all, was Dean himself. The soul of a terrified beast finding tranquility in his grace was more powerful than any physical contact. It was his gift of peace for the man who suffered at his own hands.

 

But now there was no solace to be found in his embrace. Cas could feel Dean _repel_ against him. The peace Dean had found in his presence was... gone. Snarling and destructive, his soul was in a fury.

 

“It's not only me. We're both troubled.”

 

Unsure of going further, Cas continued looking outside

 

Both remained still and quiet for what seemed to Dean an eternity until Cas breathed out. “It means 'save yourself from hell.'” Dean shifted when he heard the words but made no attempt to reply. “I don't pry into your dreams so please do not be upset with me. You've been... dreaming very loudly and I can't help but overhear. I just thought you would like to know.”

 

Dean was tired, so fucking tired. Drained of all emotion and he swore he couldn't feel anything at all. But Cas heard him, sensing his dreams at night, and something woke up inside him, deep in his chest. He wanted to say something so badly, visions in his head had him crying to Cas of everything, _everything_ he ever wanted to say to him or Sam or his father or anyone. To share the burden.

 

For now, that joy evaded him. In this reality he was afraid he would say something that could never be taken back.


	8. Three Directions

Bright. Too bright. Wasn't it night only a couple minutes ago?

 

Head still buried in the pillow, a hand blindly groped the space beside him, finding nothing.

 

Birds sang merrily outside, enjoying the genial morning weather.

 

He surveyed the room, head still hazy from sleep.

 

Alone.

 

On the table by the window lay Cas' coat, unmoved from hours before.

 

 

Dead leaves from seasons past crunched pitifully underfoot as the two brothers trekked the rapidly darkening forest to their destination, the Impala unavoidably being ditched some 40 minutes behind them. At times like these Dean wished he could fit an ATV inside the trunk.

 

“Nothing says a stealthy ambush like the rev of an engine over a mile away,” Sam observed as they scavenged the trunk for weapons.

 

“That's why it's a dream,” Dean said passively as his fingers traced the hilt of a bowie knife. In his mind's eye he could see... He was quick to retrieve a machete as he felt Sam's eyes linger on his stalled movements. Now wasn't the time to talk about his feelings. In the corner of his vision, Sam shrugged.

 

“You think you'd be used to long walks through the woods.” Grabbing what he needed, he took a step back allowing Dean to find whatever else he deemed necessary.

 

A 9mm resting under a shotgun closest to him was that he sought, shoving it into the waistband of his jeans with one hand, the steel and grip cool against his back. Done. “Purgatory was _all_ woods; not much of a choice there. You either stay moving or die. This is just annoying.” Slamming the trunk closed, Dean began walking forward, not waiting up for Sam. “Imagine my surprise when I found out my brother didn't try to cut that trip any shorter.”

 

The words sliced at Sam as Dean spoke an ugly truth. Dean never used that fact as a weapon, preferring to store it away under lock and key in the deepest and darkest corner of his mind as that was his coping mechanism. But pain never hides itself away for long. He told Dean in that cabin, shirt damp with holy water and a fresh cut to his skin, and it was honest to God real. His only family had left him in the span of a few months: Bobby was dead, and with not a hint or idea to go by, Cas and Dean were just as good as gone. It did nothing to quell the disappointment building in his older brother as to him this was abandonment. Conceding without a fight. Sam knew Dean if put into that same predicament would have turned the entire world inside-out to find him, killing anything that posed a threat to his goal.

 

Sam was so tired. Death and hallucinations brought him to collapse and knowing he might have to do the very same things Dean would do to get him back, an endeavor that was not even guaranteed to work, was more than he could bear. He was lost, without direction for the first time in his life, but he knew what he wanted. Rest. He didn't expect Dean to understand this and supposed he never would. To look him directly in the eyes and lie “I looked for you for months” was something he could never do.

 

As Sam trailed Dean beginning their expedition into the woods, leaving the Impala in a spot they hoped was well covered and would not draw any attention, his memory pulled him back to a morning in the spring. In fact, it was the day after he outed Dean and Cas as being more then friendly. After brushing and dressing for the day he saw that his laptop bag was not next to the bed where he left it. In fact, the laptop wasn't in the room at all. With only one place else it could possibly be, Sam knocked on Dean's door. Assuming Dean was sleeping he knocked once again more firmly.

 

“Quit knocking!” Dean's muffled shout signified he was awake and entered the door he knew the computer kidnapper left unlocked.

 

Neither Dean nor Cas bothered to look at him as their eyes were transfixed on the screen; the soft mumble from the speakers told it was a video. What type of video it was he didn't want to know. With the intensity in his eyes similar to the attention he gave to interrogations or playing a United States secret agent, the video could not have been porn at the very least.

 

They both sat on the bed, Dean with his legs out before him under the blankets and the laptop balanced on the top of his thighs, and Cas sitting cross-legged and head bent close to Dean's for a better view of the screen, nearly naked if not for a pair of boxers. A silent yet ebullient prayer went out to anything willing to listen to Sam for the small favor.

 

“Dean, you could have–“

 

“Shh!”

 

“But–“

 

Dean snapped his head to finally acknowledge Sam's presence in the room and hissed “Shh!” once again before returning to the screen once again.

 

It's pretty comical knowing that on Sam's birth certificate, it proves him younger than Dean.

 

So he waited. Arms crossed over his chest, Sam stayed standing by the door until whatever they were viewing stopped. It didn't.

 

Cas spoke up, his voice a juxtaposition between softness that complimented the morning while maintaining its usual growl. “So all of this is for...” He watched Dean's hand grab his own, raise it, and press it against his mouth, silencing Cas from disrupting any further. An affronted grunt turned into acceptance as Dean let go.

 

They're children. The both of them. Children.

 

Sam clapped, hoping to snap them to attention. “Well, since that mystery is solved, you two should get dressed.” After not receiving even a blink in reply, he changed his tone. “Don't make me put you in time out.”

 

“The movie's over in 20 minutes, Sam. You can wait it out for us.”

 

“If I told you to wait because I was watching a movie, you'd take my laptop from me and hide it somewhere, like the bottom of a lake.”

 

“This is different. Cas, he's...” Sam couldn't see Dean's face as he turned aside to Cas (existing in a world only occupied by him and the computer), but he could imagine it. They were sharing something, as silly as it was. A blip in time that belonged to Cas and himself and he relished in it. His nerdy angel paid him no mind and given the circumstances, he wanted it that way.

 

As quickly as it happened, Dean continued, fixing his face as it was before. “He's hasn't seen this movie before and it's almost over. It also means that,” he laid a sympathetic hand on Cas' shoulder, “he's never seen the Nazi's faces melt.”

 

Cas frowned. “Their faces melt?”

 

“Like bloody soft serve.”

 

After taking time to come to terms with this development, Cas nodded.

 

Sam never did get them out of bed before the movie ended. An attempt to snatch the laptop away was met with Cas' hand slapping his own, not lightly either. A flush blotted Dean's cheeks as he peered aside again and tucked his chin to his chest, although the meaning behind it could never be camouflaged.

 

While Dean didn't comprehend Sam's refusal to search, he now began to feel the desire to just _stop_ , to look to the knife in his hand and throw it aside, everything in the car gone, grab Cas by the wrist and drive to to the most secluded location on the continent. To rest, just for a little while. To do the things he would like to do before the chance evaporated.

 

The expedition into the woods was a silent one, with brief interruptions snapping twigs, the rustle of leaves shaking on branches jostled by squirrels, and grunts as both men swatted away mosquitoes and bugs they were sure had not been discovered and classified yet.

 

Roselia stated that, from where they parked, as long as they remained on a straight northwest path they should have no problem reaching their destination, and they would know they were close by when the gaps between trees became more pronounced until it came almost to a clearing. With a cellphone running a compass application in his free hand, Sam had the honor of keeping directions, a job humbly offered to him. Dean practically insisted.

 

Dean would chime in occasionally to make sure his brother wasn't slacking off, because “being able to safely travel through the woods is like, what, the first thing they teach Boy Scouts?” And so Dean would call back to Sam and he'd answer back “Yes, scout master,” knowing Dean was savoring the sensation of being a pain in the ass.

 

About 30 minutes in, the orange glow of light of the sun far beneath the line of trees and growing darker by the minute, Dean stopped, Sam nearly bumping into him; being the good scout he is, his head was down, looking at the phone.

 

“Anything wrong?”

 

Dean patted at his jacket's pockets. “Tell me you remembered a flashlight.” The way back to the car would be problematic, especially if one of them were to end up being hurt...

 

With a hand reaching to an inside pocket in his own jacket, Sam pulled out a rather cheap-looking flashlight, plastic and a yellow so intense it probably didn't even need batteries to glow. When Dean raised an eyebrow, Sam defended his choice. “It's all we had left in the car. As long as it works, right?” He raised the button with his thumb and shined the light into Dean's eyes as proof.

 

“You really are a Boy Scout, aren't you?” Dean raised his hand to shield his eyes, more annoyed than angry.

 

Sam flipped the switch to off. “Someone has to pick up the slack since you've been forgetful lately. I was afraid you wouldn't be...” he shrugged. “Properly prepared.”

 

“Me?” Dean glanced over his shoulders to be sure Sam was speaking to him. “I'm unprepared? I have a machete I stole from Jason Voorhees, a gun, a flask of holy tap water in my pocket and what do you bring?” When Sam did not take the cue to answer, Dean waved the blade in his direction, a little too close and a little too low for Sam's liking.

 

He rolled his eyes. “A flashlight.”

 

“He brings a damn flashlight! What do you plan on doing with that, huh? Burn their retinas? Hide under the covers with 'em and read a bedtime story until they pass out? Then big brother comes in and does the dirty work.”

 

Sam could tell by Dean's tone that right now, however brief it may be, he was feeling agreeable. His face was relaxed, especially around the eyes where they would normally become enlarged, skin going taut from emotion he was unable to suppress. It should be just the opposite, though, shouldn't it? With unchanging scenery and repetitive action Dean's thoughts should be swimming around his head, no distractions to tether them down. Thinking about Cas and his disappearances and whatever else had him so wound up. It had to be more than something like the past catching up with him. At least that's what Sam assumed. Dean does a fair job of repressing feelings and memories. Was caring for Cas a burden? Another burden added to a mind already under monumental duress? A crack was formed and water began to drip away. Over time the crack would become larger and larger...

 

Now was not the time to ask. Dean was fine and they should be arriving to their destination soon.

 

But when would be the time?

 

Dean kicked aside a small rock and watched it bounce against the jagged trunk of a fallen oak tree. “What kind of crazy Davy Crockett son of a bitch builds a house in the middle of a forest, anyway?”

 

“You would,” Sam said, genially surprised Dean would even ask a question in which the answer was clearly obvious.

 

“Guess you have a point.” He smirked amiably to nothing in particular. Little did Sam know just how hard that answer hit. Dean could see it, just as detailed and sharp as a memory, warm like a blanket protecting against the piercing chill of blood and gore and Cas... But Cas was more likely to die by his hands than have this pipe dream fulfilled.

 

Their eyes were adjusted to the darkness by now, but the aid of light would be needed momentarily. As Roselia said, the forest came to a clearing and 30 yards away stood the outline of a cabin. Dean sighed with relief, wanting to shout in gratitude but knowing better. Sam gestured to the flashlight and Dean shook his head: not yet. From this distance it was difficult to see if anyone or anything moved within the small building or even around it. They were not avoiding the chance of confrontation for it was inevitable, but having the opportunity of a surprise attack put the odds of them getting their questions answered in their favor. Dead vampires told no tales.

 

 

It was an unspoken language, pulsing waves of energy understood by anything able to interpret them. Could it even be considered a language? Perhaps. Ants communicate in a similar fashion, leaving chemical trails to lead their brethren or warn of danger, and it could not be understood by other animals; it was ignored completely. It was not vocalized, yet it made its intentions tangible. The point was clear.

 

They did not need to use their borrowed voices, but they did so because they _could_. For the first time since time began their intentions had sound. The pitch, the vibration, the vocabulary so expansive and liberating. Conversation had depth.

 

It was not only the joy of speech. They now had skin and nerves that could feel and eyes, beautiful eyes, that could see only what was in front of them. Nothing more. So narrow. So simple. Why did she want to give this up so soon?

 

On this day they reverted back, closing their mouths and communicating directly out of necessity. Of course he did not want to, containing the desire to shout out to all who could hear. But he made a promise and that much he could do. For himself, for her, for all of them.

 

_Just because they cannot hear you does not mean they cannot feel you._

 

He chose to ignore her and instead looked on, the darkness not affecting their ability to see. The waves she produced in response were slow and deep like the vibrations of a bass string, shaking him in hopes of acquiring his attention.

 

_It has been this way for many weeks. We hide in the shadows like thieves to observe scenes that have played out countless times, and to what end?_

 

She was getting nowhere with him. The vessel he chose accommodated him nicely as it is precisely how he acted: a spoiled human child. Ignoring the voice of reason, ignorant to the world distorting around him. Absolutely blind to it. There he sat on the forest floor among the dirt and insects and watched with rapt attention at these Winchesters as they stalked prey, like watching a show on television.

 

This was not entertainment. The show before them was a product of insolence and had gone on long enough.

 

The woman fell to her knees in haste in front her compeer and squeezed both of his shoulders. _You have trivialized your promise to me. While you do not raise a hand that holds the blade, your -our- very being here is tearing this universe apart. It cannot be blamed on coincidence any longer. The risk to ourselves becomes too great to ignore any longer._ She took a deep breath and loosened her grip. _We did not know we would influence the beings here this profoundly... Can we not be so confident to say that they could not do the same to us?_

 

 _Control your features,_ he said in clipped vibrations, as if he were laughing. _I am not the only one becoming accustomed to their expressions._ She quested him out to him, questioning. _Your jaw is sealed shut; if you do not release it you may crack your body's teeth. And your eyes..._ The teenager pushed himself off the ground and dusted off the seat of his shorts. _They are close to rolling out of their sockets you have enlarged them so._

 

With a timid hand she felt for the hinge of her jaw and it was in fact bulging outward. After loosening it came the dull ache from tensed muscles. Her body searched to draw an emotion she could not feel, an appropriate reaction to this... to this osmosis.

 

Sitting on her heels she remained, not bothering to look up at him. _Do you see? It begins already. We cannot allow this to progress not only for the effect it will have on them, but how it will change us. It will undoubtedly weaken us, and whatever happens after that..._

 

Unknown. That was their word for it. To not know. For them, their kind, such a term was unnecessary. But yet now it crossed them as a tangible possibility and in fact has already come to pass. Interfering in a world resistant to them was causing unforeseen consequences.

 

Of course it would. The two of them should not be here. Exist here. Foreign invaders; a virus thriving in a body. Contaminating.

 

Ahead, a beam of light jostled back and forth from within the cabin, the only element to be seen through the broken windows. Muffled voices were scarcely audible and the bodies passing merely shadows, though it did not matter. Their unique signatures, ones all humans possessed, could be acquired anywhere. The taller of the brothers remained at the side of two unconscious vampires while the bonded one hovered around the exit, imploring to eliminate them.

 

_You cannot see it anymore._

 

 _It...?_ She felt him hold out a hand to her, to lift the elder's body upright from the squatted position.

 

_Here. Look outward into this universe and you see nothing, do you not? Everything but here. Finally we are able to be here among them and yet they are but a tree without branches._

 

 _Yes, and it is more reason for us to turn back._ She was becoming erratic, impressions coming out in infrequent bursts. It was true. Many attempts were made since their arrival to apprehend the fates of anyone they quested out to, including the Winchesters and Castiel, and the result was the same for each case. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The looking glass became translucent.

 

 _Don't you want to know why?_ Was that... excitement she picked up in the pulse? As close to it as one could possess. His body's heartbeat and thought pattern spiked incessantly. It was all entirely human: the anticipation and eagerness one feels upon discovery, shortly before testing a hypothesis.

 

Questions. He was asking questions when there was no need to. It is not what they do. Watching, that was all. They only watch and no troubles had befallen them. But why? Why is that...

 

 _You, too._ He looked up to her and blinked. _We both have the same question._

 

 _No, that's wrong._ Panic began to distort the waves and due to that lost control of her legs, stumbling back from the child. _I do not need an answer. I do not want to turn out as the angels have._

 

A solid form blocked her from moving back any further, the bump knocking out the little support she had left in her unstable legs and would have fallen if the figure had not hooked its arm under hers and pressed a lengthy blade to her throat. A rush of identification rushed over her in the sudden appearance like the delay of thunder after a lightning strike.

 

The low voice threatened. “What are you?”

 

In the darkness, the boy's eyes lit up in delight. “Castiel!”

 

 

“If they haven't heard or smelled us by now, I think it's safe to assume there's nobody in there. Want to take a look around, anyway?”

 

Sam didn't need to see Dean to know he nodded, his brother's silent cues became reflex many years ago. A lowering of their guard did not mean they loosened their grip on the machetes; there may have been no vamps lurking behind the trees, but there a whole book's worth of monsters that could be.

 

The flashlight came to life in front of them, spotlighting the cabin that had seen better days. The lumber was darkened and rotting. Shattered glass on the side of the house they could see and a hole that took up a quarter of the roof; a hefty branch from the tree closest to it was the likely cause told them the structure was just as decrepit on the inside as was outside. Police tape still littered about after 3 years, leading under the door and partially buried under leaves and grass further away, dulled from weather.

 

Treading lightly toward the door which stood ajar, Dean pushed his way inside after it offered some resistance; the scraping against the floor meant it was probably a table that was pushed aside somewhat. He doubted the wind could do that.

 

“Guess we're not alone,” Dean said to himself before entering, Sam following closely behind.

 

A mixture of soil, leaves, and dust covered the floor along with the broken shards of kitchenware and amber and green beer bottles. Leaning against the walls were wooden boards, most likely used to cover the windows from the inside. Whoever took the time to undo the work must have frequented the spot. A mattress frame was all that remained of a bed; the size reminded Sam of his own at the bunker. The table Dean pushed aside was a fairly sturdy one, rectangular and bare. A single picture hung on a wall closest to them, where the living room once was, painted with scenery that could have been inspired from this location. Either the previous owner liked it simple or the others had been stolen, considering the substantial amount of barren wall space.

 

“Son of a bitch,” Dean said gravely, drawing Sam's attention away from observation.

 

Shining the light to his left, Sam followed Dean's voice and nearly jumped when he saw his brother standing between the prone bodies of...

 

As he straightened himself out, thankful his brother wasn't looking in his direction, several questions came to mind in rapid-fire succession. Not being able to choose one, he settled for, “What the hell?”

 

On one side of Dean sat a man, eyes foggy and staring straight forward, like he were looking through Sam's stomach and it made his skin itch to think that was probably the case. A healthy hue colored his face so he couldn't have been dead, but he didn't look alive, either. Couldn't have been a day over 20. No blood covered the man nor was their signs of any struggle.

 

More unsettling was Dean going face-to-face all too casually with the other figure staring out the window, back facing Sam. He must have been frozen still like his friend.

 

“Well, you seem to be pretty comfortable with whatever the hell's going on here,” Sam waved his hand out to the peculiar scene in front of him, “so you mind telling me what you know?”

 

Dean shoved the upright man on his arm and only the upper body responded to the motion, the lower half set firmly in place. One more push and Sam imagined the torso sliding off to shatter like glass against the floor.

 

“Cas pulled the same crap with me yesterday morning.” Sam tilted his head to the side quizzically when Dean left it at that, imploring him to elaborate such ambiguity. Well, it seemed pretty clear to him. He sighed and hastily answered. “Mid-conversation he turn into a space cadet. Didn't take long, but he forgot the entire thing. Said _I_ was the one imagining things, actually.”

 

“And you didn't think anything of that?” Sam asked incredulously.

 

“I did,” Dean snapped back, “but...” He growled low in his throat, positively frustrated with... with whom, exactly? Sam had asked him a simple question, one that should have been first when Cas took a mini mind vacation the other morning. What had he done? He had pushed it aside, hoping it would not happen again. Did Dean care for the cause? No. As long as it didn't happen again. Fuck, it's the first rule of being in this line of work: Weird shit doesn't just happen. If you can't explain it and also have a telephone book's worth of enemies, the bad luck and unexplained phenomena you're experiencing are intentional.

 

It was affecting him and Cas both, one not resulting from the other but separate scourges interacting; Cas was not causing his temper from acting oddly, but something else entirely. Last night he could see in Cas' eyes the shame he felt, believing that he was the cause for Dean's change in temperament, and was something in which he had no control over. Now it was not only them. Now was the time to be more invested.

 

Stupid angel. Even now you won't share your burden.

 

Dean turned his back to Sam, who was growing more worried for his brother's welfare, and pulled back the upper lip of the man next to him with his free hand. His face was cast in shadow caused by the flashlight, but that didn't matter at all. Could have had a missing nose and tulips growing out of his eyes for all Dean cared.

 

“Well, at least we didn't hike all the way up here for nothing.”

 

“Yeah?” Sam inched forward, not due to the questionable state of these two catatonic gentlemen, but to test his brother's boundaries. How close was close enough? Not deigning to press his luck, he stopped a few feet short and shone the light up.

 

“I think–I know what happened,” Dean said emphatically, lowering his hand to cover the multitude of white, razor thin fangs. “This guy here smelled us coming up.”

 

“He's looking out the window in the direction we came from,” Sam interjected.

 

Dean nodded inimically, not appreciating the interruption. “He senses a threat, puts on his mean face, but before he can even turn around they're in their happy place. And this fine fellow here”–Dean patted the head of the other vampire–“was enjoying a little Miller time, by the looks of things.”

 

Looking at the beer bottles surrounding Dean's feet, an odd question struck Sam. “The place is in the middle of nothing and the heat's enough to melt sneakers. How is the booze even palatable by the time they get here?”

 

It sounded like something Dean would say, so much so he had to repeat the words in his head to confirm the voice was not actually his own. Yeah... Yeah, that was Sammy. Sacrificed his life to prevent the Apocalypse and now deeply concerned about the correct serving temperature of beer for monsters. A humanitarian if their ever was one.

 

Seeing that Sam was about to backpedal and recant the ludicrous observation, Dean smiled. “That's a pretty good question. I guess if they ran here fast enough it would still be kinda cold, but with no electricity to power that sad excuse of a fridge back there, they wouldn't stay that way and that's a damn travesty.” He sighed melodramatically. “Drinking warm beer... They truly are godless killing machines.”

 

Quick as a viper strike Dean seized the light brown hair of the young vampire and raised the machete with the other. Sam's heart leaped into his throat as he shouted to his brother, whose face once again became lax and emotionless.

 

“The hell are you doing!”

 

Dean looked up to the knife and back to Sam. “What we normally do to vampires...”

 

“I know that, but didn't...” Dean had no intention of lowering his arm, so Sam did it for him with a distressed grunt. A scowl was his reward and it was ignored. “Weren't you the one who wanted to interrogate any monsters we came across?”

 

“They aren't going to snap out of it,” Dean said blankly.

 

“Of course they are!” Sam tried to reason with his audacious brother. “Cas did, right? He–“

 

“He hasn't been right since.” There was a fire in Dean's voice as well as his eyes. His tone lowered huskily, the first hint as to whatever was troubling him, and it seemed to be a treacherous place to begin. “If I can't get a straight answer out of him, what makes you think now will be any different?”

 

Sam needed to change Dean's perspective on this, to see it how he did and be reasonable without offending. This erratic behavior made no sense and now, seeing Dean's green eyes become glassy from pain and confusion, he feared for his welfare. “Cas was only a one shot. We need to observe more incidents like this before we can assume anything.”

 

“Are you really that blind, Sammy?” Dean asked with disappointment heavy in his drawl.

 

“No... Of course not.” Dean brought the topic safely to the table allowing his to speak openly, but still winced when he continued. “But it's been going on for a lot longer than a day. You haven't been right in about a week.” Dean looked aside, flinching himself. “You were so happy, too.”

 

He was, wasn't he? But god, it felt like years ago. Visions of the past several months assaulted his head. A soggy day when he and Cas first kissed; a creep of heat across Cas' face when he sat intentionally close to him; Sam being egged on from their backseat passenger as he taunted Dean and later reveling in their absolute agony as he sang the lyrics of every tape he put into the player. Sam smiled a lot, didn't he? Just as much as Dean did. His brother was happy because he was.

 

His hands on Cas' back as he manipulated the sensitivity there. The cause of that was still unknown though neither of them minded. Straddling his angel, grasping Dean's hair as they kissed, now less timid and bashful. How did he do it so damn well when he learned from porn? All tongue, no urgency and no need. But Cas, he... It was desire from a being that was still a novice to the feeling. Love from an angel was one most pure, he guessed. Raw and hungry and soft and possessive. He belonged to Cas just as Cas belonged to him.

 

Life was imperfect and it was fine by him. Sam was alive, supportive as always; Cas was alive, beautifully devoted.

 

But still, he couldn't...

 

“That's why we have to let them live,” Sam's voice hummed back to Dean's wandering mind. “Hear them out, see if they know anything.”

 

“They have just as much idea of what's going on as we do.” He maneuvered past Sam, minding the trash and askew furniture, to head to the door. “Whatever's manipulating us and the vamps and all the other god damn monsters on the planet isn't going to be answered by these two fuckwits and if you won't let me kill them, you can pull up a chair and babysit 'em until they attack you. I'm done here.” Dean breathed out, losing the will to put up a fight and exhausted from not being in control, and stepped out of the cabin.

 

Sam and him were an hour away from civilization on his request: some crazy crap is going down and our only lead may know something about it. Now that he was here, seeing them no different than Cas... Dean just wanted them dead. Truly dead. Decapitation was not enough, no. He wanted their stationary hearts sliced in half. They wouldn't answer Dean's inquiries because they had no answers to give. Absolutely useless, a waste, so just end them like any other.

 

Defending his life from consistent threats in Purgatory made him come to realize that while killing there was a necessity, it became enjoyable. Cathartic and cleansing and though not at peace, the moment after a kill was as close as he was going to get to reaching that state. A hunter and a vampire partnering up to kill whatever creatures that wanted to do the same to them.

 

If Dean gave into temptation and killed the two stunted vampires behind him, there would be no relief. The outward rush of tension from his body would not come. He'd kill and be unsated. The situation was not as simple as hunt or be hunted this time; rather it was a thirst for blood that could not be quenched from a mysterious cause, but with familiar attributes. Was it all more simple than it appeared, complicated by outside interference?

 

He left Sam because he feared for him to see how shaken he was.

 

“Dean, you gotta talk to me.” Sam chased after his brother, not too worried about turning his back to a threat. Standing in the doorway he shined a light toward the side of the cabin, the direction back to the car, where Dean was heading. In the dark.

 

Sam raised his voice to yell after him. “There's something bothering you and I deserve to know what it is!” All he wanted to do was help. Why wouldn't Dean let him, just this once? He always took on the burden of tending to his little brother and he would have spent another 100 years in Hell to have Dean trust him enough to support him.

 

Dean stopped. Don't turn around. Can't let him see you like this. Gotta maintain a crumb of control. No response came to mind, not a word. Why stop then? Why not ignore him and keep going? Just walk away into the darkness. In that he could find comfort.

 

“You're right. You deserve answers and I wish I could give you one. Trust me when I say I'm just as baffled as you are. Something's...” He made a fist with his free hand, recalling the ache of yesterday. “Something's not right.” _But why do I feel like it's all in my head?_

 

At first neither of them thought much of the sound coming from the distance in front of Dean – maybe it was an animal crawling along the branches above or the miniscule breeze rustling leaves. When the noise became a shout, exclaiming “Castiel” no less, a spotlight was shone directly where it came from.

 

It was over all too quickly. The cheap bulb could not cover the distance and it was a wonder the brothers could make out anything at all. Three people, one behind another. That one was holding a blade; yes, that had to be Cas. The smaller of the three -short hair, had to be a boy- had his back turned to Sam and Dean. Before they could get a look at whomever Cas was holding hostage, he or she reached out to grab the boy, like lightning striking the earth, and dissipated.

 

Sam jogged beside Dean, to get the light fixed on Cas better and to shout about what happened. He heard Sam say Cas' name, so it wasn't imagined. OK. OK. Cas was here. The two people with him might not have been, but Cas was. That's good. He's back. Under odd circumstances, but he's back.

 

“Cas, who... What's just happened?” Sam asked confoundedly, the only one of the two in a frame of mind to communicate.

 

The angel's face contorted into an array of distressed emotions. The confusion and wonder as the two disappeared was what did not hurt Dean the most. Cas looked so lost again, as Dean himself felt. They were both aware of their change of self and how helpless they were to fend it off, a storm surge pulling them out to sea. Sam had asked him to explain and Dean could see Cas sifting through words in his mind, trying to pick out the correct ones in spite of the jumbled mess.

 

It almost struck Dean as funny, despite seeing Cas with little to no clothing on a regular basis, moments like now, being fully clothed but without the trenchcoat, he seemed so small. Which was preposterous, really; he and Cas had the same body type and were nearly the same height. Maybe that wasn't it at all. The stoicism and confidence he normally displayed, headstrong to a fault, was removed, deflating him.

 

“C'mon Cas, talk to me. Even if you got the slightest hint as to whatever the hell is going on, it's more than anything we have,” Dean pleaded, the bloodlust subsiding and now concerned with only Castiel. “What were they? Demons?”

 

Eyes that almost shone clear in such direct light shot back and forth between them plaintively. “I don't... I don't know,” Cas breathed out meekly. “That's why I have to...”

 

 _Go,_ Dean completed the thought. The bastard's going to fly off again.

 

Straightening his posture, Cas closed his eyes and gazed to the ground, focusing on, on what?

 

“You son of a bitch, you're not doing this again!” Dean sprinted from Sam's side to confront the flighty angel. If he had to pin Cas to a tree with the machete to keep him here, he would. Cas _knew_ something. He was withholding information and at this point weren't they past that? Had nothing changed at all? Dean's heart dropped as his anger rose.

 

“Look at me. Castiel, look at me!” Dean's use of Cas' full name caught his attention more than the shove to the chest. That's how a parent or spouse would display their true concern, he learned. The friendly pet name or nickname replaced by the real one. It was very sincere. No joking around and no more games. While he perceived Dean's fury to be very real, the truth, at the core of it all, was fear. His human was sick, too, and the anxiety was manifesting itself as something volatile. Dean used anger or impassiveness as a cover for what he truly felt, but it was being amplified. It had to be them. This was not the work of demons.

 

The stone gaze of Dean drew his eyes upward. His voice softened, remaining firm. “You have to tell me what's going on. I don't...” He sighed. “I don't like you leaving me in the dark. No more secrets between any of us, remember? No hidden agendas, no nothing. So tell me something. Anything.”

 

Even though Cas had nothing to give Dean, he had to say something. The silence was absolute and Dean, Dean, I'm so sorry.

 

“They should not exist.” He resisted the pull to launch himself at Dean and hold him, so tight he would not be able to breathe. Dean would hug back anyway. Cas wanted him to. If he clung to Dean and he held back, maybe it would have been enough to keep him here. It was not a safe option. “I cannot remain with you two. I'm sorry.” His valediction was cut off as he disappeared, not being able to bear Dean's face as he did.

 

Sam should say something, do something, but agonized over what he _could_ do. His brother hadn't moved, made no attempt to move from his spot across from where Cas had just stood. A plea to stay was not enough. Cas left him. Left him again without excuse.

 

“Dean, um...” Dean turned around and brushed past his brother sluggishly, a real life zombie, entering the inky black cabin and shutting the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "We are threatened with suffering from three directions: from our own body, which is doomed to decay and dissolution and which cannot even do without pain and anxiety as warning signals; from the external world, which may rage against us with overwhelming and merciless forces of destruction; and finally from our relations to other men. The suffering which comes from this last source is perhaps more painful than any other."


	9. The Paradox of Omnipotence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess this is what would be an introduction to the final chapters. I hope the switch of POVs in the last chapter and in this one aren't too dramatic. I thought it would fit the narrative better as I close out.

Saltwater waves lapped against the clean sands of a beach, the sound masked by an array of multicolored fireworks exploding above that were being set of somewhere in the Atlantic. The further north one went along the beach the more dense the occupation of families and couple, elderly and young alike, became. Those who valued the privacy more so than the view seated themselves back here, with only the brief flash of red or gold or blue and the light of the moon to illuminate their surroundings. It wasn't so much about the show as it was enjoying a comfortably mild evening in one of the best places you could spend it.

 

Behind the cover of an uninhabited lifeguard station, two people manifested and nearly lost their footing as they both sunk into the sand; the instantaneous transfer from solid to granular would make anyone lose their balance. The woman leaned a hand against the structure, cheeks tinged the faintest of pink and and breath hissing out of her nose in short puffs. Any excitement or awe the child had just experienced as the angel, a creature he had known since it was created, acknowledged him, melted from his features when he came to realize that they were no longer in the forest.

 

But still. It happened! It finally happened! For the first time in their history, something watched _them_. A person, a being, discovered something which should not exist. And it raised so many questions, too! Did Castiel really have a plan for what he was going to do – go through with killing them? Did he have any ideas as to what they might be? How did he track them? They came into contact and the universe did not end, so could it be all that dreadful?

 

“ _Yet_.” She regained her composure, not needing the aid of the station anymore, but could not find the determination to open her eyes and view her colleague. Hearing him think, feeling him, was already more than she could bear. “The universe has not ended _yet_. You are thinking much too loudly. This body cannot handle much more so please silence yourself,” she sighed and rubbed her forehead.

 

“That's a little dramatic, is it not?” Peering up into her lidded eyes, the persistence of it was enough to have her unwittingly open them. A shock of green illuminated the dark and an earth-shaking rumble caused the briefest moment of panic between the two. How they showed panic, anyway: impassivity while their necks twisted from side to side like an owl's to assess that the sensation was nothing more than that. No threat. A chemical reaction above them. Like the sonic boom of lightning. It was not directed at them.

 

A quick glance over her shoulder. “I am very well within my right to be dramatic–“

 

His hands reached out to grab her left one. Questioning his motivation, she allowed him to and he held on loosely. “You do not want to know how you can even enact such a thing? When we first took these bodies I could have done this,” he squeezed his hand to bring her attention to it, “and you would have neither felt nor thought anything of it. Just now, as short and faint as a beating heart, I saw you lower your brow and think _why is he doing this? What is the point?_ And since you could find no purpose in this gesture, it made you ill at ease.”

 

The eyes emoted for a face that could not, green eyes unblinking and imploring. He did not even need to think the words. Please consider. Do not say when you think you must just yet.

 

But she had to.

 

She released her hand and gently as he held it. “What I feel or do not feel matters not. The fact we have been compromised does.” The anticipation deflated out of him. “The angel has found us and I do not wish to remain here long enough to find out how he accomplished such a feat.”

 

“If he has found us once, no matter where we go from here, he will follow. Perhaps not in the body he inhabits now, but Castiel will. We cannot avoid him forever.”

 

“I do not think he will abandon that vessel for us...” It was a failed attempt to veil uncertainty. Castiel's method of embodiment and transport was not the issue, although at another time it could have been. Moreover, his bondmate associated that flesh as the angel's own and in turn the other became fond of it, she decided Castiel would never dispose of it for any reason.

 

This changed nothing. He did not know what they were, but he could track them. Whatever links or traces they left in their wake could be traced and once identified, what made it unique, was never forgotten. It may only lead him so far. On his own he was only possible of interstellar travels when not encumbered by a body, and that was all he could do. Even his brothers the archangels were limited in their power; they could never comprehend the complexity of extended alternative realities.

 

Their reality? It was all so very damaging. She leaned her back against the boards and slid down rapidly with a tiny thump, the sand resisting against her weight to a non-existent degree. It was... becoming difficult to maintain herself on her knees again. Humans collapsed like this when under stress or frightened, correct? Their “knees give out.” The burden of secrecy could not be maintained after all, and is that not the way she has seen these stories play out? Nothing ever stays hidden. Hundreds or thousands of years may pass by but in every instance the truth is always revealed.

 

He let he regard her thoughts quietly for a moment, not wanting to listen to them but having no choice. A disquisition would only lead her to resist further and shun the true beauty of the meeting that had just occurred.

 

“Why did you choose this place?” He inquired offhandedly.

 

The voice brought her attention back to the present. “I... I'm not exactly sure. The first place I thought of, perhaps. I think I know now why he...” She trailed off dreamily, her eyes drifting to her left. Curious as to what caught her attention, he followed suit.

 

Hidden in a dull shadow cast by the waxing moon and pressed further into the building to avoid any light given off by the fireworks, the two watched a family of three walk into view approximately a dozen yards away, voices muffled by distance and the multitude of explosions overhead. The little girl tore her hand away from her mother's as she flew behind her father, sending sand flying in a spray around her, as a firework whistled and twirled in the air much closer to the ground as the others. She thought it must be about to hit her and daddy would be the best shield. The mother's shoulders shook as dad leaned down and tried to calm the girl down. A pat to the head and a large hand enveloping hers, they continued down the beach, a step behind her parents just in case another rogue spark went astray.

 

The family receded to nothing more than a dot; the show above reached it crescendo.

 

“Don't they deserve answers?” He asked regretfully.

 

Of... of all the things to say. Ignorance. Incorrigible ignorance. Had he not learned anything? Had he not listened to a word she said? The pleas, the evidence – did it mean nothing to him? This is what it must be to feel incensed. A fury so righteous it halts all thought.

 

“Answers for questions they did not ask! Answers they would not need if not for you.” She grabbed her head in discomfort. The inner dialogue was overlapping vocal speech, causing feedback she was not prepared for, nor was it expected. Two mouths speaking at once. It did not hurt much, the resulting vibration, though pressure built up behind her eyes as her vision shook.

 

“For us.” What could he do for his comrade as she sat upon the ground, so absorbed by her own confusion it physically weakened her? He did what he always did. Watch. Watch as life evolved and died and lived once more, only to repeat ad infinitum and always from a distance. Yet here they were, by their own choice, finally a part of that life, living as these being do. Still watching, yes, but now able to breathe in air heavy with salt or flowers, to caress or drink water fresh from a spring (which they did enjoy). Cold and hot were no longer words but sensations, as was pain. Fresh bruises from newborn tumbles dotting their legs and cuts healing over on palms were a constant reminder. It was a joy. 

 

It was something she had participated in so willingly, indulging in the perks of discovery to later reprimand him to ease her own guilt. That was not fair, nor was it wise. She pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her head on them, hands encircling her legs tightly against her. Dirt and mud stained them now and a hole had already formed around the knee. Her “son” did not fare better with no protection, no matter how little the pants provided, in shorts: scabbing, bruising. Nothing particularly gruesome, but enough to capture someone's attention.

 

“Perhaps... Perhaps you're correct. In universes untainted they should know of us and what we are to them. You are correct in that sense and I would...” She had to be honest, for her thoughts were not hers alone. “I would enjoy that. But have you not seen what knowledge can do? You show a being of so-called intelligence Paradise and soon they want nothing more than to control or destroy it. With discovery and research, and with best of intentions in mind, nearly everything ends in death. Need I remind you of Wilbrand? It is why we've remained hidden.”

 

“With knowledge comes definition. Do you not want to know _why_ we are so determined to be kept secret? We know nothing of what we are capable of doing yet we cower immediately away when the opportunity arrives!”

 

“You sound so impassioned,” she observed, almost in a daze. The speed of transformation was astounding.

 

He lowered himself onto his knees in front of her. She needed not only to hear his words – she needed to see _him_. Not his body reacting to his emotions but that he had them in the first place. They were an example.

 

“That's because I am. For the first time we have a chance to understand what we are, maybe even for what purpose we were created. We've told ourselves for eons that we are omnipotent and that is only because we have nothing else to compare ourselves to. This, where we are right now, existed to us only as what you would call here a 'television show.' Rapidly flickering images and nothing more. It is another life. But now we are a part of it, and we _know_ we can become a part of it. If we can be more than just observers, what else are we capable of?”

 

“It sounds like you want to–“

 

The sentence was already completed in her mind before she spoke so he cut her off hastily, not liking the direction she was going into. “I would never use what is discovered for malice. Like you, I would never attack what is not already attacking me. Do you comprehend this yet? The answers will never be given to us. We must seize it ourselves.”

 

The fireworks ahead ceased. People closer to the shoreline trekked up the beach past them onto the grass to reach the parking lot. The voices died down until the sound of waves once again reigned.

 

And they listened.

 

Castiel would be arriving at any moment, angel blade in hand and demanding answers and would most likely do anything to get them. A majority of those answers they knew they could not give. The threat of violence was not what worried them. Then what was it? Would it be the questions? Or was it awareness that their time here would soon be over?

 

Face buried in her legs, she muffled, “Do you desire to be omnipotent as you claim us to be?”

 

A hand brushed over the sand, gritty and warm, back and forth, back and forth. “I just... want to know.”

 

“And I am afraid to know.”

 

 

They had no intention of leaving, it seemed, and stranger still, they didn't look the least bit bothered that less than an hour ago he had attempted to kill one of them. Maybe not attempted, but he was willing to if the situation called for it. Cas would rather keep one or both alive, although they had been stalking Dean and Sam and their safety always, always, came first.

 

Tracking the two was much more simple this time; the first contact was all he needed to filter out... what exactly? When he attempted to locate them, what was he searching for? What _was_ it that led him to them? The closest designation he could imagine was a premonition or a hunch: an invisible string guiding him to where they have been and the area where they were. They would know. They would have to know.

 

Answers. Too many questions – he was losing track. The most important ones, as always, were the usual ones.

 

Identification.

 

Winchesters.

 

Cas waited for the final car to leave behind him before unsheathing the angel blade and appeared beside the boy this time. They regarded him with...

 

“...”

 

_Excruciating..._

 

“...”

 

Passivity.

 

“Uh...”

 

His eyes passed back and forth between them, both positively neutral to his presence. Gone was the boy's excitement of seeing him, and the woman tucked her head to her legs once again after acknowledging him. This is... well, this is not how things normally turn out. Cas appears, his target thinks “oh no, angel,” there's fighting and yelling and blood, stabbing, smiting. This was unexpected, so much so he felt exposed, standing alone on display, armed while they were not.

 

A conversation they were having was interrupted by him? Cas felt as if he were intruding and... This is not how it's supposed to work!

 

Cas groaned at his own stupidity and limply pointed the knife down at them. “Alright. The both of you stand up.”

 

The young man was quick to reply. “Before we begin, may I make a request?”

 

 _And Dean taunts_ my _voice_ , thought Cas. Neutral; a completely straight line. The tone was of a boy who had finally become adjusted to one of a man but much like Cas himself, the articulation was not his own.

 

“You're in no position to make demands of me.”

 

“Perhaps, but...” He shook his head. “Don't hurt them.”

 

Cas looked over his shoulder, expecting to see someone else. “Hurt who?”

 

“He means us,” came the small sound of the woman, still in the same position he had found her in.

 

“I can further elaborate if necessary,” he added as she clearly had no intention of it, “but please do not harm these bodies.”

 

“What do you care becomes of your vessels?” Was all of this concern false? A distraction?

 

“It's a... preventative measure.” He stood up slowly, displaying that he should not be considered a threat, which meant very little. “From making a bad situation worse.”

 

She felt him encouraging her to to also stand and face what stand before them. Oh, he made it sound so uncomplicated. Castiel was more than a threat to themselves. That interposition was crossed many weeks ago when they first arrived, when everything and anything could harm or discover them. The challenge had passed and been replaced by something far worse: this thing, this angel made flesh standing before them, was their uncertain future. What he did or did not do was portent to not just the two of them here but where they came from. This was it, and she could not face it.

 

This Castiel, out of all of them, was their harbinger of death. If it were happening to someone else, perhaps it would have been funny.

 

Cas sensed the unspoken communication between them. He didn't hear it like angel radio... It was what he and Dean shared, as did Sam and Dean. Judgment that can only be gained from intimacy: physical, familial, years of close friendship. There wasn't a word for it, not one Cas knew anyway, but he had a hunch. Almost like an aura. Not in the metaphysical sense where people glowed green and yellow. That was how a human would explain it, anyway. It was something much better. He believed that humans could sense souls, not in the way an angel would, but that their own would catch a glimmer of it in the air and interpret it. Finishing sentences, catching lies, entire conversations held within a glance.

 

Their souls stayed placid, reacting to nothing – not him, not to whatever was controlling them or their environment. Stuck in stasis. Angel nor demon resided in them, yet they transferred themselves from place to place exactly like them. Pagan gods? No. The old gods are dead. He mentally dissected John Winchester's notebook and could recall nothing of the sort.

 

The woman rose her head and tentatively lifted herself up, legs numbed and tired, so tired. This was wrong and things would never return to their former state...

 

Out of the darkness of the woods and finally standing, Cas was able to get a better look at them. Their state of dress signified that they have been in these vessels for two weeks at the very least. The woman was not much taller than the boy, who seemed to be anywhere between the ages of 13 and 15. Short russet curls were tied back in a loose ponytail though some strands had escaped; whomever inhabited the body presumably did not know how to tighten the knot properly. Hazel eyes appeared almost clear in the moonlight and stunningly sharp cheekbones carved her face.

 

The young man's hair reminded Cas of Dean's own when he was that age, but that is where the resemblances ended. Though smaller, he had a larger build and the posture was rigid, on account of the possession being the most likely cause. His skin was much fairer than his mother's and overall did not share her features but that of the father.

 

“I'm sure it's plain to you that our vessels live. We would like to return them once we are finished here, despite what may transpire between us. But in the end,” he turned to face his “mother,” “that all depends on her.”

 

“You don't get to decide on how we proceed,” Cas spat indignantly, gripping the blade a little more tightly. “You have been stalking the Winchesters and wherever your trails lead me to, monsters and demons are being altered. Just now, the vampires...”

 

_You couldn't tell me where you were just now, could you?_

 

_You don't remember, don't you?_

 

 _Nearly 15 hours cannot be accounted for._

 

Dean had reprimanded him, and Cas himself had acknowledged that he had lost track of time. He was frozen, much like the vampires were. What he had done to them was what he did to Cas that morning. No amount of prods or pushes and yells would have woken them. It was all related. Whatever they come into contact with was affected.

 

Cas grabbed the front of the child's shirt and rammed his back into the building hard enough to make the wood creak underneath and pressed onto him. He looked squarely at Castiel, expecting it or not caring.

 

“What are you doing to us?” He pressed in harder. “What purpose do these alterations serve?”

 

“Like I told you, Castiel,” the boy croaked out, windpipe closing off from the forearm pressing against it, “the decision is not mine to make.”

 

The woman's sunken face became even more plaintive as her comrade mentioned her. Why did he insist this? Why was it hers alone to make?

 

No matter where they went or they choices they made, he wanted it to be unanimous. They left together, found these bodies together, explored this planet and stayed watching the brothers and the angel together. She knew where his interests lay throughout all of this and was willing to play along, never being forced, knowing the consequences and proceeding. The blame, the burden, _should_ be hers. It could have been prevented, all of this. The deaths, the inevitable annihilation, if she had simply refused all those weeks ago.

 

_You know my request is not to be interpreted that way. I want you to make this decision because you deserve to. Nothing may become of it and nothing may change. It is as Castiel says: alterations. It's not as simple as us being threatened by their angels or demons and facing annihilation. We have changed fate on this planet and most probably, the universe. We have done something we never could have imagined possible._

 

_A choice._

 

_Correct. Yes or no, do or do not. It has happened. In the end, that what this excursion was, and why I was so enamored to survey the Winchesters. I wanted to know what happened when something such as us made choices and what would happen thereafter. Now I know. We're being rejected. Whatever may happen with Castiel now will be our last decision. You know what is at risk and my stance on it. That is why I leave it up to you._

 

“It should be elementary. Then why do I feel... Why do I feel at all?” Her voiced bordered on lament.

 

“What were you two saying just now?” Castiel growled.

 

She placed a gentle hand on Castiel's arm and urged him back. “I should hate you, you know. Your kind. What you've done. But hate is unknown to us, or was. Please let him go. We will not die, but choking his vessel will.”

 

Cas resisted. “ _Answers._ ”

 

“I wish I did have answers, something I could present to you with evidence. Only theories, like yourself.” She tugged back once more. “We're unarmed and unaware of any abilities we may possess. As you can see, we offer little resistance to threats.”

 

_The vessel is dying. You have to decide now._

 

The angel would not let go, and rightfully so. He is panicking from unknown circumstances: his time lapses and his bond's aggression. She did not need to _see_ to know that he was concerned about the possibility of losing Dean. While Castiel may consider this a job, his protective nature truly held domain over him at the moment. The only thing he had ever loved was hurting, as was he for being a cause, and he believed to have found the source, critical thinking pushed aside to maintain intimidation.

 

She could end this right now. A touch and they would return to the place of arrival, release the bodies and leave this behind. They would leave this world, yes, but to what? They could not see the impact they had until they returned home, but what of here? Would this world ever regain its former state? What of fate? They were now a part of it. So what happens _?_

 

She looked at Castiel's narrowed eyes and saw everything. His life. His lives. And she pitied him. He didn't know. Nothing did.

 

_They should not know. It is for the best. Then why do I feel so sad?_

 

He left the questioned unanswered. _What do you want?_

 

“I want someone to know.” She would remain. For now, until the feeling went away, until the words stopped flowing. This journey was filled with many regrets which could never be undone. The choice has presented itself. Do or do not. She will. This would not be a regret; a last act of defiance before... before what? The end? Will or will not, it has already happened.

 

“Castiel, Fallen from God, Angel of Thursday, guardian of Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester, bond of Dean Winchester, and One of Many. Release the boy and I will tell you what I do know.”

 

Shocked at such a title, Cas relented on his grip as the woman pulled him completely off. Unable to find anything to say, he could only stare at her. One of Many? Bond? Did the words even have meaning?

 

The tings of blue faded from his face as he inhaled freely, although he did not gasp as a human would. It was beginning. Inwardly he could not contain it and felt his partner ignoring it, rather focusing on Castiel and what she herself felt.

 

“I know you have many questions and concerns, and I suppose I gave you more with the introduction, but I will answer what I can if you will allow it.”

 

Cas tried to regain the intimidation he lost in the confusion, remaining cautious and wary to whatever they might say. “Skip _nothing_.”

 

Allowing time for him to regain his breath, she began, doing exactly as the angel requested.

 


	10. The Winchester Curse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So begins the answer chapters. Although what I do not answer here concerning the two OCs will be answered in the beginning of chapter 11, I still might miss a few details because in the process of remembering one thing, I'll forget another. Damn brain working against me all the time.
> 
> Hope the wall of text doesn't kill you.

Dean threatened that if Sam didn't leave his room by the time he finished his shower, he'd do... what? What precisely could he do or say to his brother that he hasn't already put him through? A slap to the mouth? Pull out a gun on him? He knew he'd never do any of those things and even if at some point in his life he did, Sam wouldn't back down from it. Persistence was a Winchester virtue. Or a curse. At this point they're one in the same. Sam knew the threats were empty, so he sat on the bed, resolution firm, as his brother mumbled derogatory remarks and slammed the bathroom door closed. Dried blood caked onto clothing and skin would be difficult to scrub off.

 

Dean threatened Sam to leave his room because it was late, he was tired, he was not in the fucking mood so let him get a few hours sleep, for his health and his sanity. Sam made no attempt to move from his vigil at the end of the bed and told his brother as much. Resisting the desire to grab Sam by his hair and drag the stubborn asshole outside, his pride wouldn't allow it. To do that would be an admittance to discord, to an uneasiness in the air that Sam must have been imagining. He would not cave to pressure forced upon him and admit to something that was not true. Everything is fine. Everything _was_ fine until Sam insisted it wasn't.

 

In his mind, Dean could see Sam right now, unmoving... Maybe his eyes even illuminated white like in cartoons. Orbs floating in the dark, a reminder that he wasn't going anywhere. He could feel the bed dip at his feet where Sam rested. A little devil on his shoulder attempted to persuade him to kick him off: if Sam was going to act like a bitch, nothing should stop him from acting like one, too. Two could play that game. Pride won again. Dean could play the game and very well, but not for this reason. Whatever Sam thought, it just wasn't true.

 

He's seeing things that aren't there. Give him some time alone to think about it and he'll give up. He's a smart kid, usually reasonable. Sammy'll see he's at fault and head back to his room, wake up in a couple hours and both of them will pretend this never happened.

 

Blood in his hair, stinging his eyes, blood dripping from a knife blade onto the handle so thickly it nearly slid out of his hand an excessive amount times before he was through. Cutting their heads off was not enough, not tonight. Blacking out. More blood and not from a vampire, but from the body ostensibly sacrificing itself. Secondary warmth missing by his side. Vague words that should otherwise be nothing new but... They meant so much more now. Words vibrated differently and it was wrong, all wrong Dean couldn't pretend those things did not happen. He was losing control of his thoughts and consciousness. Cas should be here and he wasn't. He wanted that god damn coat off of him in an attempt to help Cas blend in more and now that it still lay on the table, he wanted it back on the angel right now.

 

To hell with arrogant pride. Enough is enough. Sam could not be in the same room with him right now and needed to leave immediately.

 

Dean tossed the bedsheets with an embittered yell, hand flailing fruitlessly in the darkness for the bedside lamp. Once it was found, he shot out of bed and stood in front of Sam. Still with the same look. He truly would have waited all night, waiting until Dean woke up in a few hours to continue pressing him.

 

 _He doing this on purpose,_ Dean thought. _He wants to aggravate me to a point where I stop thinking about what I'm saying, hoping I'll slip up._ But what? What could Sam want to hear? No matter what it could be, this game of diligence had to stop.

 

With a deep breath, Dean tried to sound reasonable. “I get it: there's something you want from me. That's why you're here doing the Cas thing. Whatever it is can't be that important so please get out of here so I can get some sleep.”

 

Sam was stunned. Self-denial and Dean greeted each other as friends on a daily basis and in a way it might have helped him stay alive as long as he has (well, from dying in between other deaths). Ignoring the hurt, dismissing drama was only a temporary fix to a problem, one that could only be added upon and Dean of all people should know that, having broken down so many times before.

 

Only now Dean was doing nothing to conceal it. His anger, his asperity was not bound by duty anymore. Stay in control, be strong for Sammy, show 'em your not afraid. Whatever had interposed those emotions from the surface had dissolved. Why couldn't he see it?

 

“It's not _important_?” Sam asked confoundedly. “You fly off the handle every time I try to speak to you, you've been doing it for weeks, and you act like nothing's wrong.”

 

“The only reason I'm so pissed off is because you keep accusing me doing things I'm not doing!” So much for keeping calm.

 

Knowing very well his height would not intimidate his brother, Sam stood up anyway. “One wrong word, hell, a wrong letter has been sending you off into a new stratosphere of pissed off and I'm...” His own tension relented a little. “I'm worried. I know Cas has to be, too.”

 

Dean laughed snidely. “The hell do you know about Cas? He's never around. Can't get much perspective on him when he's MIA.”

 

Before Sam could explain to him what he felt was the true nature of Cas' disappearances, a single firm knock came from their door. Being a singular sound, the two, while suspicious, let time pass; maybe a wind blew something against the door. An animal? When a second knock bounced off the door, it was another example of the motto “There's no such thing as coincidences” coming to life. It was definitely human... or humanoid, and a polite one at that, in spite of the late hour to be soliciting.

 

The gun on the nightstand was hastily grabbed by Dean as Sam mouthed to him “ _I have nothing on me_. _”_

 

“ _All I have is salt and holy water in the bag._ ” Dean was quick to add as he saw the unmistakable signs of a bitchface about to make an appearance, “ _Just stand behind me. I get overwhelmed, you go on ahead and horse kick 'em.”_ He took an aiming stance and moved toward the door, Sam following closely behind.

 

“ _Kick_ them? Seriously?” Sam sibilated confoundedly, voice above a whisper. Not only was his brother unprepared for monsters or whatever entity that wanted to harm him from attacking him while at his most vulnerable, he was also an idiot.

 

Glancing over his shoulder, Dean snapped back. “Throwing a handful of salt is any better? It knocked, so I'm pretty sure we can cross off demon and ghost off the list. A solid kick to the chest with your hoof should take down whatever it is. Now zip up; you're too loud.”

 

“Don't want them to overhear us whispering about how we have nothing to fight them off with?”

 

Dean grit his teeth. “Be quiet, Sammy! It's my fault I'm under-armed, so just let me handle it.”

 

“Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester.” The voice on the other side of the door was that of a teenagers and to Dean one that sounded familiar. His mind began to process it, trying to put a name and face to it, but to no avail. Incredibly flat, it was unmistakable.

 

Neither of them answered back. Dean checked to see if Sam recognized it also. Negative.

 

“I know this is... I know how this appears, knocking on your door at such an unseemly hour, but we made a promise to Castiel that we–“

 

“You talked to Cas?” Sam placed his hand on Dean's shoulder, hoping he would be more cautious. Dean of all people should know what one would say to gain trust, and most of the beings that knew Cas wanted him dead. If Dean were thinking straight, he would know he could be walking into a field full of landmines.

 

“Yes. He suggested we knock as opposed to appearing before you. A safety concern, as it were.”

 

“You said 'we,'” Sam chimed in. “How many of you are there?”

 

“Just us two. We are unarmed and while I cannot force you to believe me, we do not seek to harm you. That was...” His voice lowered substantially. “Never our intention.”

 

Dean saw it in his head as clear as daylight when he heard “two.” “Earlier tonight in the woods. You're the kid and the woman.” Only one word was said then and faded from distance, but it remained fresh in Dean's mind. Them and Cas with his blade against the woman's throat. She reached out toward him and disappeared. So he was correct about using transportation mojo to pop in whenever they wanted.

 

“Yes, and as you saw, Castiel was tentative of us as well. He had every right to be.”

 

“So if you're not angels or demons, what are you? And why were you following us?” Sam asked, tension beginning to blossom in his voice. Being stalked by the very same people who were politely addressing them only feet away, ones that could not be identified, raised too many red flags.

 

A stretch of time went by, so much so that Dean thought they had left. Gun still raised, he glowered back to Sam - “ _Where'd they go?_ ” Sam shrugged. Before Dean could call out for a response, he answered.

 

“I know the two of you have many questions and against better judgment, we gave our word to the angel to answer them. While we do not condemn you in your wariness of us, all we can do is hope for you to believe that we do not wish to harm you, nor has any befallen Castiel. We are only here to carry out his wish.”

 

Sam and Dean could have sworn they heard his company retort to that comment, but they couldn't make out what she said, although they did hear the sigh from the boy the followed shortly after.

 

“So, what the hell do we do?” Sam asked. “I mean, they sound harmless, but so do most things that end up trying to kill us.”

 

“Damnit, I don't know,” Dean bemoaned as he rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. He knew he should say no, for them to turn right back around and go harass someone else, and if they didn't like that answer and decided to get a little frisky, a bullet to the head would solve that dilemma. The vampires, worrying about Cas and arguing with Sam left him drained, his mind and body aching for a brief respite. But they talked to Cas. They might know where he was and what he has been doing... It was a guaranteed in, wasn't it? If they have been following or stalking the three of them for who knows how long it truly was, they would know that Dean and Cas' relationship has been under duress and could use the subject to gain Dean's trust.

 

But what if they told the truth? Everything in life was a 50/50 chance, and the two of them had done far more reckless things. If they did in fact come under their own volition under friendly terms, by denying them entrance, could Dean be making an enemy out of them? If they were as passive as they sounded, that shouldn't be the case, but... Why was something so simple difficult to decide upon?

 

Grumbling deep within his chest, Dean conceded. “If I let you in–”

 

“Dean...”

 

“I know, Sam, back off. If I let you two in, we run the gamut: salt, water, Sam goes back to his room to grab a knife and we give you a souvenir to remember us by. Not once will this gun not be aimed at either one of you. Terms sound fair?”

 

“Yes, Dean Winchester” the voice behind the door said almost immediately.

 

The use of his full name threw him off a little, as did the swiftness of the reply. He sounded suspiciously eager to enter room.

 

Sam passed in front of Dean to open the door, but hung his hand over the knob. While his face looked doubtful of the integrity of whatever was on the other side, his eyes shown with concern. His brother could not find answers for himself, so in desperation he turned to strangers promising him guileless solutions. They knew it, too. Using his volatility to gain trust. He knew Dean was astute even when distracted, but this was different somehow. Not since Lisa had Dean cared so much for someone other than Sam...

 

“Are you positive? Even though we have no clue to what they are?” Sam knew the answer before he asked. He felt obligated to warn him one last time.

 

Dean only nodded, resuming his stance as Sam heavily opened the door.

 

 

“We should start off with names first. Can't keep calling you 'you.'” Sam handed the boy a roll of paper towels for the fresh cut on his arm, as well as to wipe away the holy water dripping from his face and onto his lap.

 

He tore off several sheets and pressed them against his arm. “Thank you, Sam Winchester.”

 

“No, man, you have to stop saying that,” Dean groaned, leaning against the door. “Calling us by our full names. Too damn strange, even for me. 'Dean' and 'Sam,' alright?”

 

“We're sorry to cause you discomfort,” he said, looking between the brothers. “Habit, I suppose.”

 

Sam took a seat at the table where Cas' coat still lay. “'We?' She can talk, too?”

 

“Yes. My companion has... much to think about.” For the briefest moment, when his eyes focused on her, Dean could have sworn he saw pity there, or something much deeper. Hapless; watching someone you care for flounder before you. Did Dean look at Sam that way when he hallucinated, or when he withdrew from demon blood?

 

“We ourselves do not have names. Will the names of our vessels suffice?” All attention was focused once again on the brothers in front of him.

 

No names? Just when in the hell were they dealing with? Sam waved a hand. “Yeah, sure. That's fine.”

 

Releasing his grip from his arm, the kid ripped off another sheet from the roll to wipe his face. “Her's is Jillian. This one is Roland.”

 

Dean laughed through his nose. “ _And the gunslinger followed._ Doesn't that figure.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow in bewilderment. Was this another pop culture reference he should understand but didn't?

 

“You should really read a book sometime, Sammy,” Dean responded arrogantly. While Sam mumbled “jerk” under his breath, Dean ignored it and turned his attention back to Roland.

 

There were no surprises during the tests: no reaction to salt, no smoke when splashed with holy water, and no screams of agony when Sam sliced into the flesh of their forearms. The two of them knew that would be the likely result, but human nor demon was exempt of a hunter's form of patting and frisking. The boy, Roland, presented his arm eagerly before Sam could say to, mouth a thin line and eyes large. Sam felt like he was being studied or critiqued. Harmless curiosity or not, it was still intrusive. After being cleared, he sat rigidly at the end of the bed.

 

Jillian wasn't as zealous as her companion. She still submitted to the testing without hesitation, but appeared to be despondent all the while. Something much more pressing was on her mind than the tests and this visit to the Winchesters. Her face was drawn, head hung low. Exhausted. She looked exhausted. If she were like most monsters they've encountered, sleep was either not necessary or possible. This too shattered the brothers' expectations and made them all the more cautions.

 

When Sam returned to hand her a washcloth for her arm, she stood vigil at the window ( _just like Cas_ ), solemnly accepting it before diverting her attention away once again. It was clear Roland would be doing the talking.

 

“I'm sorry to impede on you,” Roland looked at the floor in an act of humility, “but could we bother you for something to drink?”

 

Well, that's different. Sam was just as thunderstruck as Dean. “Do you mean like liquor or...?”

 

“Water would be best, if you have any.”

 

“Yeah, uh – there are bottles in the fridge.” It came out almost as a question. The only reaction Dean got out of Sam as he went to the kitchen was a shrug that said “I don't have any idea what's going on either.”

 

“You two look very troubled. Have I done something wrong?”

 

Dean began to notice a trend between their early morning visitors in the form of their facial communications. Their faces remained motionless, a mask of marble where the rest was normal. Like now. Roland spoke as if he had offended them, his voice an even hum and expressionless. The eyes. That was how the both of them conveyed their feelings where words could not. Eyebrows drawn together, Roland honestly appeared concerned that he had insulted them in some way while the rest of him did not. No inclination of the body, an invasion of personal space one would do to show that, yes, I am worried. No tilt of the head, not even his jaw hung open, lips parted slightly as one does when fretful. Almost as if everything but was paralyzed.

 

Perhaps it was because Roland was so young, Dean felt like he was obligated to reassure him. “No, you didn't do anything. It's just a weird request because... You're, uh...” Dean struggled to find the words, gun held loosely in his hand.

 

Considering what Dean meant for a moment, Roland responded, “Oh. That is because you see us somehow being related to your demons and angels as we similarly inhabit bodies, but we do not possess a host as they would.”

 

Sam returned with the water bottles, handing one to Roland who was grateful to receive it, then to Jillian who wavered momentarily before holding her hand out.

 

“There's more than one way to possess someone?” Dean asked intrigued as Sam sat down once again. His eye caught the glimmer of the knife looped between his belt at the side.

 

After draining the bottle of half of its liquid, Roland took a restorative breath and replaced the cap. “Theoretically, yes. Your demons and angels, their anima – their consciousness, what qualifies as their life – enters a host physically and rather violently. With or without consent. We, on the other hand, possess remotely, if you want to label that as being possessed.”

 

“So you're saying you're not even here right now?” Dean asked doubtfully. “Then where the hell are you?”

 

“That I... cannot say for certain.”

 

“Can't, or won't?” San questioned critically.

 

Roland shook his head. “Where we are from, there is no location or coordinates, nor does it have a name. It simply is. Like us.” His voice lowered, reflecting on his own statement. “Unlike Heaven, it has not been given a title by the sentient creatures that dwell within, who then venture to Earth and even other universes to spread its existence.”

 

“We are,” Jillian added, caught in a daydream. Though she was listening to the men converse, she spoke more to herself, as if trying to sort out and reason with the thoughts running rampant in her head.

 

 _And I thought nobody could get more cryptic and vague than Cas_ , Dean thought. “So you're from Parts Unknown. That's not really helping your case out at all.”

 

Before Dean could become defensive, effectively ceasing all communication and kicking them out for such absurd answers, Sam interjected in hopes of changing the topic when clearer answers may be available. “OK, so you're no different than anything else. For one reason or another you're here, just like us. It doesn't matter where you're from. But why are you _here_? You two just didn't travel here on a whim.”

 

Jillian made something that only could be described as a choking sound deep withing her throat; Sam thought she may have accidentally inhaled water. The bottle was on the table rather than in her hand, so something Roland had said must have amused her.

 

“That's correct.”

 

“That is... not entirely correct. You sound as if you condemn me.” In his voice bloomed an edge as fine as a blade's. “I am not the only one at fault.”

 

She folded her dirtied and scratch arms over her chest. “I did not say you were. Can I not find felicity in this drama we find ourselves in?”

 

“You've become melodramatic,” Roland lamented.

 

Eyes sharp like a hawk's pierced through the boy and she left it at that.

 

“Just answer the damn question,” Dean impatiently demanded. These two had to be angels. Such an effusive display of family drama reminded him of his many encounters of watching them bicker.

 

Roland at first glanced to Jillian for help and soon realized she would offer him none, retreating back into daydream. Looking into his hands, he shyly fought for words. “I have...” The stern countenance of Dean was more than he could bear, so he turned to Sam who appeared more reassuring, although still naturally skeptical. “I have wanted to since the moment I saw two human brothers burdened by inevitability defy it. You do not know,” Roland almost pleaded, “how wondrous it was to witness something like that.”

 

“What do you mean?” Sam asked. “We do a whole lot of things we shouldn't be doing.”

 

“That fall of Satan.” The spark in his eyes returned. “Sam Win– Sam was the child molded to be the vessel of Lucifer, tainted by blood. His brother, the vessel of Lucifer's own kin, fated to fight him and bring upon the Apocalypse and you, Sam, who always thought yourself a failure and worthless, like you could not find a place for yourself in the world you live in, died for it. I see the way you look at me Dean, but know that we do not watch events like these as entertainment. Only because that is how it has always been.”

 

“Looks like we have ourselves a fan club.” The false elation in his words were thick. “You keep saying that, that you 'are' and 'watching' us. What the hell does it mean?” It was all too oblique. Oblique and strange and unbelievable. If it weren't for Sam, Dean would have shot the both of them by now. So they knew details from the averted Apocalypse. A lot of other people did, too. That alone was not justifiable grounds to trust them.

 

Roland removed the bloodied paper towel from his arm and not knowing where to put it, he simply held onto it. He took a deep breath, preparing himself or acknowledging that this was the reason they came here for, what Castiel insisted they tell Sam and Dean before they severed connection with these soiled bodies. Divulging this arcana with the angel previously was a rehearsal; prepared, he now only had to recite it.

 

“It is as it sounds. We do not remember our creation, much like you do not remember your own birth. With nothing to explain to us how we came to be or what purpose we serve, all of us -for there are more than myself and my comrade- exist, flowing through time which can only be measured by beings like yourself.”

 

“That's another thing,” Dean interrupted and was shockingly cut off himself by Roland, much to Sam's entertainment. “Questions will beget questions. I do not wish to sound impolite, but I ask you refrain from doing so. Because...” Dean's intense gaze made him falter. Further aggravating Dean on an already bad day is not something done casually. “Because I am certain I will cover all that you may have,” he completed meekly. The hunter shifted his weight and mumbled “Whatever.”

 

“Time for us existed long before your God created Man, as did the other gods with their respective planets. I know how that sounds and yes, it is true. It is as they say here: Man is not alone in the universe. The complexity of it is not apparent at first, although it will be.”

 

Sam shook his head in disbelief. “You talk about aliens so casually...”

 

“Says the guy who was never chased down by a UFO,” Dean was grimly reminded, remembering his own close encounter. It would have been the fourth kind. The kind with poking... Cas wasn't even allowed to poke yet...

 

He suppressed a whine and noticed all eyes, even Jillian's, were on him and silent as death. “The–the hell you all gawking at?”

 

Sam smiled at his brother whose face was growing more pale by the second. There was more than abductions on Dean's mind at the moment, so he decided it best to let it slide.

 

“I suppose we could been interpreted as aliens as we are not of your planet,” Roland attempted to return to the topic. “Considering all you have encountered in your lives and all the knowledge you have gained, life on other planets has to be the most sane instance of them all.”

 

“Yeah, I guess,” Dean grumbled noncommittally. This was positively insane, all of it. He was talking about aliens _to_ aliens. Wait. When did he start believing a word they said? The animalistic urge to call them out on their bullshit that he had to quell made him want to grab them by their shirts and toss them out the door or better yet, the window. Of course Sam would want to impersonate Dr. Phil and mediate this existential discussion. In his heart of hearts he knew Sam too was cautious of what Roland was telling them: years of broken bonds and trust made both the men skeptical of everything that was told to them. Why did he say nothing?

 

The other half of the water bottle was quickly finished before Roland continued. Sam wanted to ask why they needed to drink at all but knew he'd be met with the same resistance that Dean encountered.

 

“We oversee them, too. Everything that lives or has lived we have observed, and we remember all of it. But we've noticed a change since commandeering these bodies. We cannot see anymore, not as we used to. Only as... well, how you would, I imagine. I knew this would be difficult to explain so let me tell you before I even begin to.

 

“You both have experienced something like this before with the archangels, but even they do not know just how complex travel can be. Dean, you were sent into a universe by the angel Zachariah, in which the Croatoan virus plagued the world and your brother fulfilled his destiny as a scion of Azazel and vessel of Lucifer. You met yourself in this future, the man you became after Sam's decision. Castiel lost... everything. His grace, his family in Heaven and on Earth.”

 

Dean closed the small gap between him and Roland and pressed the gun against his forehead, his finger a hair's width away from pulling the trigger. Utterly confounded by the quickness of his brother's movement and aggression, Sam flew out of his seat, the back of the chair bouncing against the table before crashing over. He shouted his name which was ignored.

 

Through clenched teeth Dean strained against abject trepidation and from violation. Something only he saw, something very private was revealed as if here were there to witness it. Memories finally buried after years of recall. Sam was gone. Cas was gone. Bobby. Everything that gave him reason to continue living was taken from him and he continued on as nothing more than a husk willing to sacrifice everyone and everything for one last chance. That man was vile, reprehensible. It was a man he still knew deep within his soul he could become and it scared the living hell out of him.

 

“How the fuck do you know what?”

 

“Dean. Dean, _stop_ ,” Sam called, not daring to venture any close to his disturbed brother.

 

“You weren't there, Sam! How...” He swallowed, hoping it would get the quiver out of his voice. “How do you know that?”

 

Roland looked to the man towering above him pityingly, the gun still marking his head. “My example is also my proof. You are undoubtedly skeptical of all I have so far explained and I find no fault in that. But this is how it must be, for you to believe me and to identify myself. Some privacy must be sacrificed.”

 

“You promised not to kill them unless they came at us,” Sam firmly stated. “I know it's uncomfortable, but please, back away. It's pretty clear they aren't lying to us.”

 

“No,” growled Dean. “I wanna hear what else this son of a bitch knows about us.”

 

“You just want an excuse to kill him!” If this continued Sam would have to risk interfering a volatile situation to take the gun away from his brother. It did raise another question. The two seemed to value the bodies they wore, pleading for them not to be harmed, even drinking water as if it would sustain them. Why? Did it really matter?

 

When they first entered the light of the hotel room, healing scratches were visible under dirt which meant that the wounds were old. The cuts he gave them showed no signs of advanced healing. It was as if they were still human, aging and hurting and breathing no different than himself. Altered consciousness such as trance states were similar, but something else was clearly in control, not implanted or impressed upon. Whoever the real Jillian and Roland were was still in there, their souls or their cognizance, whatever made them _them_ , were tucked away dormant but safe. They wished for no harm because of the life still within.

 

“Dean, if you kill a puppet,” Sam said slowly, “it won't kill the person controlling it. Even if you shot Roland, you wouldn't be getting rid of what you were really aiming for. You'd be killing the person inside.” He took a step toward Roland's side and grabbed his wrist, raising it. The kid offered no resistance. “If they could heal themselves, they would have done it already. They need water to _live_. This isn't a normal possession: they're living in these bodies as a human would. So just... stand down.”

 

The wild look remained in Dean's eyes, dark as a snake's and ready to bite. Was what Sam said true? Given there current state, it had to be. Still, something did not settle right in his gut. Ageless patterns of interplanetary consciousness had a limit to their power when doing something as simple as controlling a human? Living, dead, doll or whatever, he would stay on his guard.

 

“Quick question,” Dean said, a calm coming over his voice. “Dean Smith. What car does he drive?”

 

Roland's face, if you squinted, appeared to light up as he understood where Dean was taking this. “A Prius.”

 

“Jared Padalecki has an...”

 

“Alpaca in his back yard.”

 

Dean slowly aimed the gun away, laughing weakly as he did so. “You know, I still have nightmares about driving that damn thing. I've been to Hell and back, and I've shared a car with Sammy after a burrito, but nothing compares to that.”

 

“Dean, but... you.” What happened? What the hell just happened? In the blink of an eye Dean goes from homicidal to chummy. It is a skill he's perfected since he was a teenager, but it was one Sam never got used to. The transition is so smooth, enough to make your head spin if you thought about it. “How did...?” he couldn't even form sentences. Now was a good time to sit down, so he did after placing the chair upright, folding his arms upon the tabletop and resting his head on them. Brain numbed, he still managed to fumble out, “Did you really have to mention the damn burritos?”

 

“I think they already know about the burritos,” Dean teased brashly. “If they already have the goods on Bizarro Dean and the alpaca whisperer, I'm willing to bet none of us have any secrets. Now here's the deal, kid. Well, you're not a kid. Besides the point. I don't know what you are or what you can do and a little birdy keeps telling me you don't either, so this gun here? Out of sight. But I'm a pretty quick draw.”

 

Sam guffawed. “Still thinks he's a cowboy.”

 

“The adults are speaking,” Dean said with the tone of a parent being interrupted while talking on the phone. Which is essentially what happened. Sam could sulk all he wanted. Shoving the pistol into the back of his jeans, he pulled out a chair and sat directly opposite of Sam, far enough to have both Roland and Jillian in his vision. “OK, so you know all this. Details of everybody's personal lives. What's the purpose?”

 

Roland's brow creased, trying to determine where to start. Which way would be easier, clearer to understand? Dean, while critical, was willing to listen and give him a chance. Would be sound believable?

 

“Yes or no... Do or do not,” he repeated to himself from earlier that night. “I do not know what we are or why we are able to see what we can. That's... not it.” Tumbling over his words, Roland gripped the edge of the bed tight, not knowing how else to express the chaotic mess in his mind. “Every... Your lives, from the instant you are born until the moment of death are comprised of either yes or no moments, something you decide yourself or something thrust upon you. That in itself seems of no concern and just a fact of life. But it is far more complex than you could possibly conceive.”

 

Sam stirred and raised his head, waiting for Roland to continue.

 

“Your physicist Issac Newton said that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and I find it a very good example of how we observe the universe at work.” He faltered. “I know this may sound absurd, but...”

 

“We deal with the absurd everyday,” Sam tried to comfort. “Try us.”

 

“Well... Every decision you make follows that law. Physically. It manifests into...”

 

“The point he is trying to express,” Jillian softly interceded, “is that whenever you accept or decline, that current universe diverts into two, the equal and opposite reaction: one yes, one no. And in turn those two become four, four into eight. A finite amount of replications until the creator of that particular branch dies, thus ending it. But even the acceptance of death is not definite as it once was,” she added to herself at the end.

 

“Do you mean us? Like hunters?” Sam asked, bordering on defensive and he was not sure why. We felt way too confused to be offended. “Because we bring people back from the dead so often?”

 

She brushed off his answer, looking back out the window instead where not even her reflection could be seen.

 

Roland shook his head. “Do not misinterpret that. She was merely musing to herself.”

 

“Yeah, that's not the problem,” Dean agreed. “Whatever the hell they just said is.”

 

Knee gripping his knee even more tightly, Roland began to fidget. “Allow me to, um, use an example. Something as mundane as... waking in the morning. Do you wake up when the alarm sounds or do you continue to sleep? The two decisions create two new universes seamlessly, one in which you arise and begin your day, the other in which you sleep several minutes more and repeat what you did before.”

 

“So then those two universes would become four: the universe where you woke up when you should and decide to do something else, and the other one where you're still in bed and have to decide on whether or not to get up again.” Sam tried to reason. Well, it sounded completely unreasonably, but he tried to make some sense of it. He believed in alternative universes or realities as he had seem them for himself. This was a new addition to what he knew as true, that choices made changes, but even minor ones.

 

Why not? Why would the universe limit itself, or see the difference in, saying no to Lucifer and whether to have pancakes or cereal for breakfast? That's none of its concern. It was space with floating mass occupying it, spread out between distances that could only be measured by time. Space was not sentient – as far as he knew; after tonight he would have to rethink about life as he understood it. It has no say in what happens within and could only watch. Much like what Jillian and Roland said they do.

 

Dean crossed his arms over his chest and whistled. “So, throwing out a hypothetical here, let's say I understood what you just said and thought 'Gee, that makes perfect sense, an infinite amount of mes fucking up their lives sounds swell.' Where do you fit into it all?”

 

“We watch,” Roland said wistfully. “As the divergences happen, created not only by you humans here but by anything with the intelligence to make a choice, we observe simultaneously. So we can see any version of yourself at any given moment.”

 

“What am _I_ doing right now? Any other me.” Not only was it for some type of proof or confirmation, but who could pass up an opportunity to what is basically a twin is up to, Sam reasoned. How did Bizarro Sam end up? What kind of life did he live? How many are alive? Dead? Or worse...

 

“That is something I cannot answer. Our sight has altered since we took control of these bodies. We now see as you do, I assume. Similar to tunnel vision, if an analogy would be helpful to you.”

 

Wouldn't that figure. “So you're drawing blanks?” Dean taunted snidely.

 

“Our focus is being funneled, but our memories remain intact, Dean Winchester.” Unable to convey sarcasm or irritation, the use of Dean's full name after being specifically told not to was the next best thing. Sam took note and simpered low, not wanting Dean to see. Goofy as he appeared, Roland could probably handle himself whenever the moment arose. “Up until the moment of intake.”

 

Sam was still smiling when he told Roland yes, that's fine, just do what you can, looking to Dean and rolling his eyes. He could be such a prude sometimes.

 

Roland stalled, not being able to meet the gaze of the brothers. He did not appear to be panicking, but that did not mean he wasn't. “There are... some where Mary and John Winchester still live, others where they never hunted. Sam was not chosen by Azazel, thus avoiding the taint of demon blood. Where the both of you never became hunters and have wedded, stable lives with children and modest homes. Sam is dead, Dean is dead or both, for any number of reasons and Dean, you never were chosen for Micheal and never met Castiel or Kevin Tran or–“

 

From the side of the room, Jillian groaned, cutting off her fretful companion. “And you characterize me as the melodramatic one.” Finally leaving her post by the window, she strode over to Roland's side and sat down, but the rigidness of her stature said it was not for comfort.

 

“What happened? I though Mr. Roboto couldn't have panic attacks.” Dean scrunched his nose and asked Sam, “Was that even a panic attack?”

 

Sam should have assumed that Roland would list off things like that: alive or dead, happiness and peace, together or torn apart. There are many decisions he made and not by another that would lead him to an extremely different life than the one he led currently. Those thoughts are easy to ignore. It's human nature to dwell on mistakes, to desire to turn back the clock and re-do whatever could have been altered. It might take some time, but you come to terms with it: there's no going back so you deal with whatever mess you made right here and now.

 

As a hunter, one is reminded almost daily of regrets. Fate has a delightful way of returning to you something that has brought strife. A vampire slaughters your family and you bet a couple years down the line there it is again, attempting to finish off what it began. Did a crocotta manage to escape while you were down? That's OK – you would see it again. A day, a month, decades, didn't matter. They all come back. Not only monsters but also the people who you've let down due to it. Families losing a loved one because of your inability to act, something you could have stopped. Your own friends and fellow hunters becoming alienated and detesting your existence.

 

But there was a world out there were none of that came to be. Somewhere right now Sam Winchester and Dean Winchester were living out normal human lives, doing normal human activities. It was a holiday so Sam was sure Dean would be hosting a cookout, inviting Sam and his wife and kids -damn, _kids_?- and his parents, his parents would still be alive, finally able to spend time with the grandchildren. It would be a universe where Castiel never met Dean, so he might be dating or married himself. Dean with kids... Within his heart, in his soul, he knew Dean would make an extraordinary father, no matter what this Dean thought.

 

It felt like the wind got knocked out of him, a kick straight to the gut. Having experienced first-hand traveling to these universes Sam figured there had to be many more, and could only be reached by angels who wanted to use them as a private playground. And there was more, perhaps even an infinite number; all conscious life may vanish here but in another place, who is to say? Sam Winchester, college graduate. Lucifer. Father. Compost. Half of him wanted to call Roland out, that what he's saying could not possibly be true. The other half was more pragmatic.

 

And Dean, he didn't seem to care at all, or made a good show of not caring which he was an artist at doing. How could this information _not_ sink into his skin like a damp chill? They had both lost so much and now knowing that out there right now, oblivious to them or any of the others, Dean and Sam were living the good life. A world in which they said yes or no. Hell, Dean had to be with Ben and Lisa in one of them. How could that not be affecting him right now? He shared this world with Cas... How does that not twist your stomach into knots? Mom and Dad, alive and together. Sane, judgment not clouded by grief and obsession.

 

Draw attention away from the pain. That's what Dean had done. What he always did. Cracks in the facade would show if only briefly, like an aversion of the eyes, a tentative sigh or gulp because it was so difficult to swallow this all, wasn't it?

 

So he shrugged and allowed Dean to continue playing.

 

After more than a minute of silence from their visitors, Dean asserted dubiously, “You two keeping us in the dark?”

 

“The long-term complications are finally becoming relevant to him,” Jillian said ever flatly. “He adores you both, although he is now not as trusting after listing what you do not have. It is what I have been trying to impart on him all along.”

 

“Why now?” Dean asked.

 

“Do not feign ignorance, child. There is danger in our ability and the knowledge of it from outsiders. It is,” she breathed, the hostility draining out of her words, “easy to taunt extinction from the safety of time and environment. But now that we face a probable death, even he cannot ignore it.”

 

“Wait, why do you think we'd kill you? Why now?” Sam asked, not trying to conceal his reproach. Where did this come from all of a sudden?

 

She sat beside Roland in the same way he did, back rigid with her hands in her lap. With sullen gazes, they reminded Dean of people in photographs from the late 1800's and early 1900's. The information of infinite worlds in their heads and they managed to look as blank as Sam did when he talked about Motörhead.

 

“If not kill – use,” Roland broke his silence. “We have just given you the apple, so to speak. Universal travel is not unfamiliar to you both. The angels who had such an ability are gone and not only that, they had full command of their strengths. We are... vulnerable.”

 

“Our powers are unknown as we've never dared use them,” Jillian continued. “There's a possibility we may never die. But your kind...” She looked aside, away from the brothers. “You have a way of defying preconceptions and make the impossible possible. You ask. You research and study and are relentless in your pursuits. Given enough time, what you could do to us, impose upon us by means even we do not know could be catastrophic to everything, not only our kind.”

 

It took a moment, but Dean understood. Roland and Jillian had, with shaky consent, dangled a carrot in front of their faces and that carrot was called a better life. In a galaxy both close and far, far away, Dean was living the high life or any life other than this, a life he didn't know about until two creatures or beings or _whatever_ came knocking on his door in the twilight hours. The bridge that connected here to there and it was not under home field advantage. They were children. Not easily manipulated but as they said: vulnerable. Something in a tome may not be specifically made to banish them or control them, but who is to say it wouldn't? Could a spell to track angels be modified to locate something not of this world? If they were puppeteers as they claimed to be, the strings could lead anybody or anything right to them. Severing the lines was the only solution but here they were, under the pretense that Cas wanted them to stay which may or may not be a lie, but why would they now?

 

“You think we're going to use you? To do what? Kill the other me? Take his place?” Dean knew how exaggerated his umbrage was. Like he wasn't trying at all to conceal the fact it was something he could consider.

 

After silently pondering, Roland asked Jillian, “What is it that Castiel told us? The aphorism...”

 

“'The road to Hell is paved with good intentions,'” Jillian answered.

 

“Yes, and what that means, Dean, because I can so clearly read it in your face,” Roland remonstrated Dean, whom turned away at the sound of his name to change the very look, “it matters not the reason you would want to travel, for decent or nefarious purposes; it is wrong.”

 

“Which is why you did the same thing,” Sam said with little remorse.

 

Dean lost count of how many minutes the room remained like a crypt, Sam's caustic words leaving all at a loss. If anything was being said between the two Dean couldn't tell this time. To him it looked as if they were inwardly reflecting, but it was hard to say, kind of like judging the character of a wall. Lips pressed tight in frowns; faces looking straight ahead but eyes cast downward. Blood still seeped through the cuts although they did not drip down their dirtied arms. So out of place. Confused. Lost.

 

He had a dream like that once upon a time. He was missing for weeks, but he came back. He always did. No matter what forces attempted to pry them apart, they always found each other again. Knocking on his door with the force of a falling feather. Dirt dried with blood caked his face, cut and swollen lips, clothing in tatters with rips and holes in them and in the case of the coat, entire pieces were missing. He wasn't panicked or scared or any of the shit he should have been. All he could say was “It's gone.” And he'd demand what, what's wrong, what do you mean but the answer was always the same.

 

Dean would wake up remembering his friend was dead and dreams like that had no meaning anymore.

 

“Perhaps we deserve this,” Jillian meekly broke the stagnant air. “We altered your universe by coming here. Decisions that were never supposed to be made were. Deaths were inadvertently propagated by us when we promised to never interfere in any way. We... I. I wanted a reason to be. I now know the feeling of pride and greed and am being repaid in kind for it, even at the expense of my _family_.” Jillian's tongue twisted with the word, which was not foreign in nature, but it seemed the only correct term for her brethren. Not blood relatives or lawful, nor forged in blood. Family like the angels, created by one Father, all of them.

 

“We are NOT–” Her voice broke, rising higher than she knew possible, and the shock was clearly visible as her voice caught in her throat in an effort to control it. Regaining her composure, Jillian continued. “We are not supposed to assert ourselves, but we did and in doing so have tainted this universe to a degree I cannot foretell.”

 

“Your monsters,” Roland interceded affably with the intention of giving Jillian time to settle herself for though she seemed collected on the outside, he heard her frantic cries from the inside. “Us being here has unsettled them and we both beseech you to believe that this was not our intent, nor did we know it would happen at all.”

 

“We kind of figured that. But do you have any idea how?” Dean queried.

 

Roland shrugged. “Our decisions, perhaps. The string that connects us to your world? Maybe even both. Either way, we are the cause and we hope that you will regain some normalcy when we depart. Returning your enemies to their predictable states is the absolute least we can do for you.”

 

“How about you take 'em all with you? We don't mind.”

 

“Seriously, Dean?” Sam gawked.

 

“Completely.” Sam rolled his eyes at his idiot brother. “Can I ask, um, something a little more personal?”

 

Roland dabbed his arm with the paper towel again, which was on the verge of not being able to absorb any more. “I, I might be able to.”

 

“Uh, yeah. About Cas...” He didn't want to go any further than that. Please, please don't need an elaboration. Sam being in the room wasn't the problem. It was, well... He fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.

 

Tilting his head at an imperceptible angle, Roland recalled Castiel's own concerns. “Are you worried that the angel is being affected too?”

 

Dean bashfully nodded, something Sam would have thought adorable if his brother wasn't such a god damned idiot. He loved the guy, and Dean knew Sam knew how much he loved him. So why continue to act otherwise? Why did Dean still see it as such a horrible thing? Idiot brother loved idiot angel. Accept it!

 

“It is not my place to discuss that matter. Castiel will soon return to you soon to–”

 

“Don't you try to bullshit a bullshitter, Rol.” Dean's voice took on a graveled edge, critical and threatening. “If you know as much about Cas as you say you do, you'd know he's...” He licked his lips. “You'd know that's a lie.”

 

“You and Castiel have much to address. I know you will find my words harsh but I must say them. Throughout all of this, you have not considered Castiel's feelings.” Roland raised a hand and Dean snorted indignantly. “I know you want him to return to you but I beg of you to reflect on that for if you do, you will understand why he strays.” He looked to Sam in apology. “I will speak no more of it.”

 

“Good thing,” Sam said with some relief. “Dean would probably shoot you.”

 

Dean looked out the window. The faintest signs of dawn were beginning to show, along with the chirping of birds. Baby was in view, as always. By his side, patiently waiting for the next trip to anywhere in the continental United States. She enjoyed her work and the work put into her by Dean. Never breaking down. Waiting.

 

Dully, Dean asked, never taking his eyes of the Impala, “Ever heard of the Winchester House? Place out in California. Absolutely enormous. Millions upon millions of dollars invested into this mansion since it started construction in the late 1800's. Some bogus medium told her to construct it because the spirits of people killed by the Winchester rifle back in the Civil War were haunting her. So she moved out west and did exactly that.

 

“Girl wasn't too right to begin with and she claimed that ghosts still haunted her while she lived there, so naturally it's a big tourist attraction now. But sometimes, when I think about crazy and lonely Sarah in a place that huge all by herself, hearing the ghosts of the people she harmed with nothing but her name, makes me wonder if the Winchester curse isn't such crap after all.”

 

He asked no one, and no one answered.


	11. Blackbird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, I hope this is okay. There's sex in the next chapter and I just want this to justify it.
> 
> Sorry for another long chapter. Grab a cup of hot cocoa and get comfortable.

Dean leaned against the driver's side of the Impala, an uneasy hand rubbing the back of his neck.

 

“Cas, I, uh...” God, this was pathetic. Just spit it out. You're a damn adult, quit tripping over your words like a schoolboy. He let out a great heaving sigh and tried again. “You're probably busy or don't want to talk to me; either way is fine. I just want you to know that whenever you're ready, I will be too.” Affectedly, Dean grinned. “Well, maybe not completely ready, but you know what I mean.”

 

The rest was up to Cas. A prayer for the time being was all he could offer the angel, wherever in the world he was. Would Cas even receive the prayer? Could he be ignoring Dean? If Roland was correct, if he had turned a deaf ear to Cas for the last several weeks, maybe he was deserving of his scorn.

 

It was never intentional. Absolutely not. That was a problem of his gender, wasn't it? To be so dense, him moreso than others. Hell, Dean was the sort of guy to shrug aside his own problems and Cas, sober and stoic as always, never complained about his own. Dean's reasoning was selfless in origin, that his dilemmas took the backseat to others, which he learned at a young age. Sammy. He lived for Sammy. Breathed for him and bled for him and shed tears for him. But it was worth it, right? Sam was... OK. Sam is OK because Dean is not.

 

Saving and dying for the world. Always others before himself.

 

Cas was difficult. He never spoke of his emotions much, choosing to deal with the present. The quiet moments he would spend staring far away like he was reflecting upon something... Maybe he was. The nights he would spend watching Dean sleep or lengthy rides across states looking out the window, scenery unchanging and losing himself to thought. Daydreams, even? Words he wanted to say but couldn't? What crossed through his head in times like those, and why did Dean never have the gumption to ask? Cas might not give him a straight answer, instead giving an elusive one word reply and stopping the questioning dead in its tracks.

 

That's what Dean would do. Their reasons may have differed but the result remained the same. He... wanted to know why and he never said a damn word. Dean knew why he locked his emotions away in a padded cell. They were safe there. _He_ was safe. Cas, though. Was that his protective mechanism? Is he saving himself from something? What? Why?

 

Dean moaned. No wonder Cas was upset with him. He was doing the best he could to be the worst possible boyfriend in _any_ history.

 

 

It took until the early dawn hours for Dean to recognize them. Cas was watching the evening news close to a week an a half ago, a night before they returned to Lebanon, perched on the end of the bed and attention tuned in like a radio signal. The same devotion he gave to Sesame Street, only with less questions. Dean, having only gotten out of the shower, rubbing a damp towel over even wetter hair, caught the last of the segment.

 

“We were there recently.”

 

“Hmm?” He tossed the towel into the bathroom without looking, allowing it to fall wherever the fates deemed it necessary. Was the seat cover down? Also up to fate.

 

“A mother and son in Ohio disappeared two weeks ago,” Cas answered, not bothering to look away from the screen. “Around the same time we worked a case.”

 

With a satisfied sigh, Dean flung himself onto the bed, face buried in a pillow and bare feet nudging Cas's side. This was nice. This was very nice. Clean and comfortable and calm and Cas. The only thing to ruin it was... “You think it's related?” he warbled through the pillow, wanting nothing more than to not talk about work. Getting a tooth filled sounded more pleasurable. Hallucinating Lucifer sounded more pleasurable.

 

“People go missing at distressing rates throughout the world. I'm sure this is only coincidence.”

 

“I don't like that word,” Dean groaned. “Use something like... 'A series of unfortunate events,' Cassy.”

 

“You know I don't like _that_ word,” Cas emphasized with a push on the leg that was still prodding at his side. With a jovial snort, for both his success at diverting the less-than-desirable topic and getting under Cas' skin, Dean relented only to start up again with his rendition of “Lola” entitled “Cassy” seconds later. Dean thought it was pretty good for being muffled by a pillow; Cas left for a half hour until Dean could “regain some civility.” Totally worth it.

 

But Dean remembered, before taking a nosedive on the bed, seeing the faces of Roland and Jillian on the TV. Two still photos profiling them, the picture of the boy was not as recent. The small details were fleeting and they looked a lot worse for wear when they showed up at their door but, god help him, he still recognized them. Guess he had a knack for recollecting faces.

 

“You're bringing these guys straight back home once your through here.”

 

It wasn't a question, although Roland replied in that manner. “That was our intention. Castiel found us and... We could not turn him down when he requested we come to you.”

 

“That's it, right?” Unable to continue with the discomfort, Dean placed the gun on the table. “No more bending over on command. Someone comes up to either of you on the way back and demands you make them a sandwich, you tell 'em 'go to hell' because there's a guy out there missing his wife and a kid missing his big brother.”

 

“Dean turns a little protective when families are involved,” Sam added as a footnote. “He turns into everyone's overbearing brother.”

 

Nodding, Dean said “Damn right I do, and you of all people should know why.” There was no trace of hostility in those words - only a reminder of what Sam already knew. Saving a family that stood a chance when your own turned to ash the second you came into the world; to prevent them from meeting the very same fate. While this weren't normal case circumstances, they strive for the most positive outcome nonetheless: try to regain some shadow of what life used to be before.

 

But how? How does that happen for anybody they have crossed paths with? Jillian and Roland return home. What then? What made these two individuals themselves would be returned to them from being dormant for weeks. Were they seeing events as they happened, silent passengers within their own bodies, watching as they transported around the world as quick as they could blink? Dean pulling a gun out on Jillian's son. The pain from a knife or from a fall. Would they remember? Dean could picture in his mind Jillian trying to explain to her husband all that had happened to them and him walking away in disbelief, or calling 911 to seek help for his mentally unstable wife who had just reappeared with their son and speaking tales of magic and angels and interstellar beings.

 

Or would they remember nothing at all, like snapping out of sleep? One moment you're doing dishes, the next you're outside and worse for wear, aches blossoming for seemingly no reason. The news coverage they were receiving was another bump in the road. What story could they piece together would be believable enough to get them through the onslaught of questions soon to be mercilessly thrown their way?

 

Dean sighed. He was too tired for so many damn questions. It was his job to help the innocents. Usually innocents, anyway. Do that, wish them well and drive off to the next one and hope that no one, including yourself, dies. What they left behind, the emotional and collateral damage, was out of their hands entirely. Families broken, homes destroyed, what... what could they _do_ about that? Was it not their place to offer help? They could, but what's the point? Some thank the hunters that save them, some others curse them for ever appearing in their lives. Something, either way, dies in the end. Always.

 

“What seems to be troubling you, Dean?” Roland asked with mild curiosity.

 

“Just about everything,” Dean sighed once again. Why did he care so much? Why now?

 

“You might be right.” As Roland stood up, beckoning Jillian to do the same, desiring to leave as they believed there was nothing left of importance here, Sam raised a hand in protest.

 

“Wait. I, I know the sooner you leave the better, but I need to ask one more thing before you do.” All eyes turned to him.

 

Jillian pursed her lips. “Even your brother said–“

 

Before she had the chance to argue with him, Sam countered by saying “Why are you really here?”

 

The rigidness of their stature melted away drip by drip, shoulders drooping down and their chins tucked to their chests. Almost shameful.

 

“Look what you've gone and did, Sammy,” Dean said, teasing affability. “I think you brought dishonor to their family.” He squinted. “That or they're going to cry, whatever happens first.”

 

“I'm not saying they lied to us. Some weird things have been happening and I believe that _they_ believe it's because of them. What I meant was,” Sam's voice slivered down to a conspiratorial tone, “ that they didn't give us the entire truth.”

 

At this point, did it even matter if they withheld information? Sam and Dean enlisted the help of selective recall to get them through their days. What's done is done. They admitted to being the cause of some unnatural psychological imbalance in creatures they hunt or otherwise do not like, although it was unintentional. The cure? Who knew. Nature has a way of fixing herself after calamities so, with fingers crossed and a wish over a four-leaf clover, maybe the same would happen here.

 

If the gap of silence was any indication, it was very likely Roland and Jillian were conversing silently.

 

“They look like you and Cas,” Sam pointed out, whispering as if it would offend the subjects of his comment. “Staring at each other like that, having your own discussions while I blend in with the walls.”

 

Dean found himself hissing back as if it were contagious. “We're not telepathic. We... uh.” Why did he and Cas look at each other like that, anyway? He understood why Cas might but for him to return it was a mystery.

 

“You let your eyes do the talking for you. Gazes fix on each other longingly, you begin to undress him mentally saying _If Sam weren't here right now I'd tear off that unflattering coat and ride you until–_ “

 

Crying out, Dean clamped his hands over his ears and wished for a merciful angel, if one existed, to smite his brother.To block out Sam's absurd child-like grin, he squeezed down his eyelids and would keep them that way until somebody cut slits into them. “Damnit, Sam, you're... one sick puppy, you know that?” That's it. There was something disturbingly wrong with his brother. Dean screwed up somewhere along the way and this pain in the ass that sat before him would be a persistent reminder of his failure to instil humanity into his only family. It was an aura of bitchness. Vowing to himself from this point forward, whenever Sam got a girlfriend, Dean would cockblock at any opportunity he could.

 

“God damn weirdo, way too interested in my sex life,” Dean mumbled as silently as opened his eyes and rubbed the bleariness out of them, his brother continuing to snicker.

 

And as suddenly as that, Roland was gone. No valediction, no sound like a pop or rustle that trailed him in his exit; only an empty space next to the woman who gave no sign that she was to follow. Sam's arrogant expression fell away and he quickly scanned the corners of the room to confirm that he hadn't simply walked away while he wasn't looking. No. He left.

 

“Our biggest fan and he couldn't even say goodbye,” Dean feigned disappointment. “That's the problem with being a celebrity: people take and take but they never thank you for it or appreciate it.”

 

Hoping she too would ignore his brother, Sam asked with more sensitivity, “Where did he go? Is he coming back?”

 

Jillian shook her head, answering neither question. “We adhere to one rule where we reside and that is to not interfere. We do not know what bestowed this guideline to us but it seemed reasonable, so we followed. He... 'Roland' informed me that he wanted to observe you - that is to say, the Winchesters of the universe he chose. I guess you could say this was the first experience I had of emotion: I was shocked. Our consciousness are interlinked so we cannot withhold secrets or thoughts from one another.”

 

“So this was all spontaneous?” Dean asked.

 

“No. He put much thought into coming here. His intentions were rather fuzzy, and he did not blatantly say at any point 'I want to meet the humans.' Once he let himself be known, I...” She wrapped her arms around herself like she was cold ( _Or nervous_ ). “Didn't think he was serious. But he was. There was what may have been days we debated this. How I tried to reason with him. It would happen whether I wanted it to or not. In the end we struck a deal: I would go along and would 'pull us out' if necessary. He agreed before I completed my terms and... here we are.”

 

“But why did you pick them to control? Why here?” Fantastic. More questions. This was not a case, not in the slightest, but it sure as hell felt like one. This interrogation was missing a monkey suit.

 

“All entirely random,” she dismissed. “Your universe is no more special than any others, nor are you. As long as the conditions of 'Dean and Sam Winchester must be alive and under no command other than themselves, acting under their own will' were met, we were free to choose. Well, that is to say he chose; I was a passenger.

 

“The ease of conducting these bodies was strikingly simplistic. He three of you had left Ohio as we entered, so beginning there seemed most logical. All we had to do was want it.”

 

“Want it?” Sam threw a quick glance to his brother to see if he was thinking the same thing. “You mean you said 'I want to go to this place' and it happened?”

 

She unwrapped her arms from around herself and, much to the astonishment of the brothers, sighed. “It was that way for him. _I_ did not want to, although I did acquiesce for the sake of his welfare and our own. I said yes.”

 

Jillian's legs gave way from under her and fell back onto the bed, like the strings that held her upright were severed. The analogy may have been apt. Remaining unresponsive for longer than was comfortable, Sam tentatively rose to check on her, unsure of whether or not she was still being controlled or if she even breathed because from what Dean could see, it didn't seem so.

 

“Jill? Are you, uhm...” His hand hovered above her neck. Dean was about to scold him for being such a baby until Sam drew his hand back, not quickly from shock but from being impolite as she opened her eyes to look at him.

 

“I said yes. Never did I once... What is happening to us?” Swinging her legs over to the side of the bed, a moan that filled the entire room made both men flinch from both lack of volume control and uncharacteristic display of emotion. This was all still very unfamiliar to her, reacting to what was until now foreign feelings: that's a thing the apes did, or any of the other intelligent and flawed creatures. But she experienced it firsthand, and it was overwhelming. To have something bubble inside of you, not being able to control or play it down, when it finally did come out, chaotic would be a choice word. A wail was the only way she could express herself.

 

Sam passed around the bed to offer a hand but since Jill did not sense his presence next to her, it went ignores.

 

“So by being here, you're – what's the word? You're... assimilating how we do things?” Dean hoped they weren't learning anything from him.

 

“I agreed to travel with him. Follow Samuel and Dean Winchester. Visit their home. Locations they have stayed in. Continue to linger though there was nothing left to see. I agreed. Your monsters became stricken by the effects of the tears we have caused and they grow larger and more dangers every second we remain here, so much so that Castiel could locate us. I saw the danger and yet I agreed with him, to stay. Faced with the threat of extinction and I still agree. I do so because... ohhh.” She moaned once again, much like the first time. “Because I don't want to LEavE. To smell and touch and see, to see only one present is a gift I wish not to return. It is WRONg. FeeLing this way, we cannot... We have left nothing but ruin in our wake and all will suffer from such desire.”

 

 

And much like Roland before her, she departed without a goodbye. No “good luck,” no “sayonara,” leaving only a void and an uncertain future. Maybe that's just their way. Castiel had been watching humanity for a long time too and was just now getting the hang of the importance of announcing his exit. Well, sort of. Whenever he remember or depending on his mood.

 

On the other hand, and more likely, they didn't want to. She said it herself, voice undulating and fretful, that she didn't want to leave. Neither of them did, but it was absolutely imperative. Long goodbyes hurt the most. Instead of having them linger, much like a medical adhesive, you tear it off in one motion; you simply go. Staying for the Winchesters was not their intention. Rather, it was the world they inhabited. No matter how broken it may be, these two strange outsiders could still find the beauty in it. Enjoying the simple things life had to offer, as if they were imprisoned for many years, never seeing the outside world, finally set free.

 

Did they realize they were in fact prisoners?

 

Dean looked up to the black sky, brief illuminations of heat lightning to the north. The universe rejected them. Not people, but an entire universe demanded their leave. Dean and his brother, as well as many hunters, lived on the fringes of society, doing whatever they needed to get by. But they had a _place_ within all the disorder around them, a niche to mold themselves uncomfortably into and tried to maneuver in life from within it. Monsters and angels, too, had their own specific order in the scheme of things, pain in the ass as it was.

 

Where did Roland and Jill fit into it all? They didn't. This world had an allergic reaction to the thought of them being there because that's all it was: a thought. They, the weirdo mind alien puppeteers, existed in the same way angels do, Dean examined - as energy. While the mind aliens didn't know if they could or could not possess, by thinking it, they controlled bodies here in this supposedly random universe. That's when the rash showed up.

 

What happened if they could possess like Cas, condensing all of that energy in such a tiny entity? Could it even be done? Could they possess bodies being controlled by something else?

 

“Damnit, no more questions.” Dean pinched his nose, wanting the voices to shut up for just a couple of minutes. It's been a day already. Time to give daddy a break.

 

“I have many unanswered questions left in my mind, also. We're not deserving of them, even if they did know the answers.”

 

Castiel's voice came from his left, though he did not recall hearing him arrive. Maybe he was too distracted. He squeezed his eyes shut as his stomach clenched into a knot. Although it did not hurt, the suddenness of it made him gasp, doing his best to quell the volume from being noticeable.

 

That was to be expected, Cas knew, but the guilt still abraded him. He gazed aside. It was what he deserved.

 

Dean breathed through his nose. “I'm shocked you showed up at all.”

 

“Yes” was the simple but truncated reply after some hesitation.

 

“'Yes?'” Dean effusively repeated. _You disappear for days at a time, ignore both Sammy and my prayers, won't fucking talk to me when you do show your face, and the only thing you can think to say is_ “Yes.” He wanted to shout so badly, the knot of nerves or apprehension or uncertainty, whatever the hell he was succumbing to, was unrelenting in his gut, truculent temper now common whenever Cas was in his presence. But Dean withheld. Jill said what? If he calmed down and actually listened to Cas he'd understand what's happening? Even if that was the case, it didn't stop how he felt at the moment. Dean didn't want to _listen_. He wanted to... Wanted to do what?

 

The knot tightened.

 

“Dean...” was all Cas could manage to sound out. He could see it, he could feel it seeping out of Dean and battering him like a gale. His soul was a torrent of confusion and aggression and hurt, being multiplied by outside forces and he wanted to say something, anything, to make it stop. Now wasn't the right time. Would it ever be the right time? Maybe it was for the best that he spoke nothing at all.

 

_Cas, you know Dean's hurting right now. I can't say for certain what's wrong with him, but I have a hunch it's because of you. Whether or not you're doing this intentionally or unintentionally I don't know and honestly, stuff like that is best left between you two. This isn't something I can alleviate... He's stupid in love with you and you know that. I understand very well he can be a pain in the ass and you really want to, like, punch him. Just... don't give up on Dean, alright? He'll never say anything, but he needs you._

 

How many days ago was that? Sam had begged him to stand by his brother, no matter what he does or says, to find the cause of what made Dean's soul cry out in agony. The human answered his own question. Cas was the cause and the cure, only if he could do what was right for both himself and Dean.

 

Leave.

 

Leave him.

 

“I asked them about the conditions of other universes,” Cas blurted out, not wanting to face the reality of leaving Dean and saying anything to do so. Dean's scowl remained unchanged and Cas interpreted that as a signal to continue somewhat unsteadily. “How others compare with our own. In some, the old gods never fell out of power. That is not to say they have become eliminated from this one as some still do worship them, but in others it is much more widespread and those of Judaic and Christian faith are in the minority. In fact,” Cas said with an ironic smile, “angels have become subservient to humans in others.”

 

Dean raised an eyebrow.

 

“That was my reaction,” Cas chuckled light as air. “I was given no details. I would liked... to have known the events that led up to that.”

 

“So you could... um.” Dean didn't want to speak, not at all, but curiosity got the best of him. “So you could stop something like that from happening or...”

 

Cas leaned against the car and crossed his legs, still leaving a moderate sized gap between himself and Dean. “No. To see the resistance my brothers, sisters and I put up against it, if we struggled at all, and if we struggle still. And who decided it: our Father or a spell. For this universe, it does not seem likely to happen. That is not to say it will never happen.”

 

“Sounds pretty ominous,” Dean managed to mumble.

 

A smile formed on Cas' lips. “This one is much better. _Dragons._ ”

 

“Dragons?”

 

A nod. “Dragons. Although in most of those universes humanity is on the brink of extinction or are already, so you would have never had the pleasure of meeting one.”

 

“Are you...?” Dean was torn between disbelief and insult, one part wanting to kill Cas for playing him a fool and the other wanting to ask more questions about fucking _dragons_. “You're just yanking my damn leg now.”

 

Sensing Dean's capricious temperament rising again, Cas attempted to mollify him. “No more outlandish than anything else they've said. You know they existed, Dean. Their remains are used in spells. The possibility of them or any extinct animal continuing to thrive elsewhere shouldn't be so farfetched.”

 

The heavy air stood between them like a wall, the lights in the distance flickering like lightning bugs. It was too much to control anymore. His mind raced, his emotions fluctuated and slammed against him like a train at full speed. Sorting anything out would be impossible. What to think or say or do. What should he do? Focus on something, anything, and work off of it. Start somewhere. Control yourself. Dean tries to grab on, but you cannot lower your hand into a pool of shadows and expect to retrieve one. A singular hint, a scrap of a hint, was all he wanted.

 

“I'm human in many of them,” Cas filled the silence, reflecting rather painfully on something that never happened to him. “My grace either taken from me or...” He looked down at his feet and while the ugly lighting of the parking lot cast most of his face in shadow, his eyes still reflected it. They were glassed over. Dean had never seen Cas so shaken; yet he still played it very nonchalantly because when Dean is your teacher, that's your first lesson. You learn to feel then pretend it never happened.

 

But why? Why would he be so upset over his other selves losing their grace? When Dean learned of his stable and bountiful life it hurt, there was no denying that, but it never made him so upset. So why did Cas look like he would cry at any second? The only other option was the he gave up his grace.

 

Dean stifled a barking laugh at the insensibility of it all. “But you're an angel! Why would you give up your grace willingly?”

 

Something heavy connected with his temple so suddenly he tripped over his own feet trying to regain his balance, landing hard on his side. Whether it was a punch or a slap or the impact of some object Dean didn't know, nor did he have the time to care. He shook some of the fuzziness out of his head as Castiel grabbed him from under his arms and hauled him up roughly. The surprise attack and being manhandled so ignited whatever aggression he was holding back toward the angel for days; he wanted to punch and kick and bite the son of a bitch.

 

Pushing back was all he could to at the moment, to create space. The barrage he so envisioned never came to be as Cas raised a hand and _forced_ Dean into the car with his grace, making it shake on its chassy. He tried to move anything he could to break the hold, grunting and gritting his teeth, but all of his extremities were frozen in place. Arm still raised, Cas's demeanor was collected. The set of his jaw and still glassy eyes said that not all was alright.

 

Boots scratching the pavement to find traction, Dean shouted loud enough to echo across the parking lot, to hell with whoever heard it. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” He tried to move forward, both hands planted to his car pushing away. Cas was far too strong.

 

“You don't... You still don't _get_ it.” Cas was beginning to lose grip on his own anger, pressing his grace further against Dean and squeezing the air out of his lungs. “It must be a Winchester trait.”

 

“What's that supposed to mean! God damnit, Cas!”

 

Cas spoke softly over Dean's struggling grunts and cursing. “Your brother asked me something similar. About my immortality. He couldn't find anything negative about it either, instead seeing it as a gift. Even you, Dean. I thought you would see it differently by now.”

 

“Stop being vague and say what you mean,” Dean snarled.

 

Deep inside Cas felt his resistance snap in two, what he had been holding back out of fear and concern, and even the hope of Dean being able to figure that out himself. It rushed out of him as he stepped closer to Dean, still out of his reach. He lifted Dean onto his toes and focused all of his grace on a fine point on his stomach, making the pain much worse, but Dean needed to feel that. As overcome as he was, he still could not find the strength to raise his voice.

 

“You're a damnable fool, Dean... The blame is not entirely on you, although it does not pardon your ignorance or disregard. I know this may be difficult for you but please, see things from my perspective.”

 

Dean could sense it: the moment Cas lowered his hand, which would be any time, he would fly off. No, not again, no more of that. Cas could be pissed off all he wanted to be, tight lipped and shut off, but he wasn't going to allow him to run away from it anymore. He wasn't a teenager, locking himself away in his room after a fight with the parents. No, you face your problems like a man. You...

 

_Oh, God._

 

As expected, Cas released his telekinetic hold and while he expected Dean to slump down to the ground as he tried to regain air that was forced out of him, he roughly found his footing and lunged forward, grabbing both dark sleeves of his jacket.

 

“ _No,_ ” his voice managed to scratch out. An inhale was promptly coughed out. He doubled over and tried again. “ _You're staying_.”

 

The desire to maim Cas was slowly, agonizingly, dissipating. Could it have been fatigue, both mind and body? He still wanted to scream and yell at Cas until his ears bled and went deaf from it, very much so. But to hurt him, the fire was extinguished.

 

Fabric remained under his fingers. Shoes still planted firmly on the ground. Cas stayed. Cas stayed as he regained his breath. His stomach hurt. Lungs ached, mind rushing. Conflicted. A feather light touch swept across his brow. Standing back up straight to look at Cas he observed the dampness on his forehead and the t-shirt sticking to his back. With humidity no different than a sauna and the struggle he had put up, it was no wonder he began to sweat. And Cas wiped it away because he's strange like that.

 

Dean dropped his hands back to his sides. “Cas, I...”

 

_Don't let him fall._

 

“I know.”

 

_If you sever my wings... Will that make you happy?_

 

In this moment, he couldn't bear having Cas look at him so he turned away, unable to stop the groan that escaped him. He heard his name said but halted its continuation with a motion of his arm.

 

“You have no right to silence me.” In fact, Cas should be the one to do that, to cut Dean off mid-sentence on a whim. Dean didn't want to listen anymore, didn't want to hear the alternative side to a story? How very unfortunate. No more. Dean could no longer remain ignorant of his own pain. Every word had been waiting to be heard, caged inside Cas' head for so long out of consideration. Dean may have his reasons, but he has a voice too. Has feelings. Ones that didn't lack the depth others assumed. Cas may not show it like a human, but he too feels the pain of piercing wound to the heart.

 

With the door unlocked, Cas–

 

“It's too much!”

 

–had to stop before he even began. It was so sudden and frantic he had no choice but to silence himself. Giving him no time to process or respond to the cry, Dean shouted once again and Cas _felt_ it. He saw it, Dean's soul, glowing bright. On fire, waves radiating off of him, something very familiar. Something he had been seeking all this time.

 

In front of him, his proud and tragically beautiful hunter, abused and broken and weary of life, crumbled.

 

“It's too much!” Dean repeated, vocals cracking. His heart was pounding like he had run a marathon, heart pounding against his ribcage and, god, he just wanted to cry and kick and scream because it was all so fucking overwhelming. Worst of all these maladies was that he couldn't stop it. He could not stop the words, these abhorrent emotions, from spilling out of his mouth.

 

“This is... All of it! It's all coming at me at once and I can't, I can't fucking deal with it, Cas.” He swallowed down a sob. “The guilt's been givin' me nightmares and it's you. It's always about you. Everything in my head's slammed into all at once and...” Holding his head in his hands, Dean took a shaky breath.

 

“Being with you... It scares the hell out of me. Everything about it. Some baggage I thought I unloaded years ago are coming back to bite me in the ass. I fell into this comfort zone way too quickly. Kinda like it was natural. I didn't want that. I didn't think it could happen.” Dean stopped for a moment to steady the stream of thoughts; it was all moving so quickly. “I wake up in the morning next to you and I don't want it to be anyone else, not ever. Touching you, kissing you... Do you know how completely comfortable I was doing it? Even the first time. I wasn't even freaked out about kissing a guy. I freaked out because it was _you_.

 

“For that point and what runs through my head to this very second is, What the hell does he see in me?” A tear sneaked its way down his cheek and he wiped at it disdainfully. “I treated you like shit, Cas. For years. I was using you. You were helpful on hunts, got us out of jams. Healing us when we got in over our heads. And that's all you were to me. A means to an end. How can you love someone like that?”

 

Before Dean could continue, Cas felt inclined to mention somberly, “The same way you can love someone like myself?” Dean appeared to be fighting for words, indignation morphing into consternation. He was trying so hard to understand the simplicity of what he had heard. To have Dean hold such a high regard of him, unwarranted as it was, almost brought a smile to his face. “Why do you think I have been absent for so long?” he inquired.

 

“Because...” As suddenly as the ring of a gun shot, Dean felt a metaphorical spotlight on him and for the life of him he did not know why. It was the question of the hour, wasn't it? Dean's question, anyway. Why does Cas leave. Well, why does _anyone_ run? “You're afraid of something?” Can Cas even become rattled?

 

Being able to read Dean's face, because his colorful expressions said more than his mouth could most days, Cas had to answer in kind exasperation, “Of course I am.”

 

“Well so am I!” Dean left no chance to breath before he shouted back. “There's not one any given moment I'm not terrified, but that doesn't mean I take a walk when it gets too rough!”

 

A victim of his unstable condition. Cas could see him struggling to keep afloat, his judgment and perspicacity being pulled under the squall. There had been many times like these where Dean floundered so, when Cas denied himself from comforting his human, not like his poor attempt at it would solve anything. A hand on his shoulder, a light embrace. But he knew better. Dean would be offended and shrug him off, making matters worse.

 

And so it was now, except this time it would not be only Dean he desired to console.

 

“The two of us, we deal with our fears differently. Your anger is a part of who you are. I accept that part of you as what makes you “you.” Unique from any other version of yourself.”

 

“Great. Do you want the key to the city for being such a humanitarian?”

 

Cas closed the gap between them by appearing at Dean's side with feathers rustling and noisily cutting the air, sending a burst outward. He hissed in Dean's ear before he even had time to react. “I run because of you. You, _you_ wonder how I could care for you? How many times have I broken your trust, Dean?”

 

“Cas...”

 

“Answer me!”

 

“No!”

 

Smirking, Cas leaned back. “Precisely. It's too painful to reflect on how many times it has been.”

 

“Big fucking deal! Do you know how many times I've screwed up? You could add up the fingers on every Dean out there and it still wouldn't be enough. So has Sam. We shake it off. It's all we can do. It might take some time, but we forgive. Because we're family. You're... you're my family, Cas.”

 

It was something Dean had said many times before, and every time he had meant it. Never did it sound so clear, so poignant. The world was silenced around him. The words were so edifying. Family. That's who Cas was to him at first and even now as they shared the same bed. Family was forever. Having Cas stay that way was the best gift Dean could ever receive. If only Cas would believe he was.

 

Cas could see the glittering in Dean's eyes. To the man before him, “family” meant more than any “I love you.” It was different this time. Often the words would be said casually, around others and meant only as that, like the same way he and Sam were family. _This_ was Dean's way of telling Cas he loved him. You're imperfect and I love you in spite of it all.

 

He had to smile, he just couldn't stop himself. “Family forgives. We're supposed to understand and be open with one another, about our pet peeves, our likes and dislikes. Whatever is on our mind. We've been failing abjectly, haven't we?”

 

“Ain't that the truth,” Dean responded, rubbing sluggishly at his face where he had been hit. It was a punch. Had to be a punch. A slap wouldn't smart this badly. The movement caught Cas's attention.

 

“It was...” He sighed. “It wasn't your fault. We've both been overwhelmed for far too long.”

 

Leaning back against the Impala and a hand still cupping his cheek, Dean looked on defensively. _No shit_. His eyes implored Cas to keep talking, to see where he was leading this to.

 

“In May, we made an agreement with each other, that we accepted one another with no regard to the flaws and emotional damage. It was simple to do and it still is. Sometimes,” he appended, because it hasn't been. Like now. He was aware of what was happening to him and Dean, but that did not ease the outside forces that afflicted it upon them. “But we reflect inwards and _despise_ ourselves. You look at me now and say you need me, knowing very well of all the atrocities I have committed, while I see you, truly see you, deemed worthy of the title you possess and even now I see the look of disgust etched on your face.”

 

That word again. Even though Cas did not say it, Dean knew exactly the one. Nothing invoked more ire in him than being reminded of his role as the Righteous Man, one he never wanted and one he didn't try out for. Like being born, he had no say in it. If anybody knew him truly, they too would see what a sham it was.

 

Cas looked to the jet black sky, losing himself in thought. “Our fears are induced by our lack of self-worth and shortcomings. It's vain, and something I understand myself doing. 'Me' is always the dilemma.

 

“There is much much I chose to ignore, all for my selfish desires. But now, with the appearance of Jillian and Roland and the shockwave their presence has induced, influencing me, it all has become impossible to cast aside. They have enveloped me. Dean, I--” his voice pinched, but forced himself to continue. “I look at you, even now and... all I can think of is what I cannot provide for you. What you deserve out of life and what I know you want. To be wed. Children. A secluded home. All things I wish to give to you and if I could change my decision to possess a male body, I would.”

 

He couldn't stop. He couldn't even see Dean. The compulsion to purge his mind became too strong. Be rid of it, rid of it all. Let there be nothing left. The fire he felt within his chest was not a cleansing one like he was told it would be. The truth and guilt latched onto him like a parasite and tore at his body as he tried to remove it, needled maw creating an air-tight seal. All shame and dirt and while it pained him, it was something he deserved.

 

“And then there's Sam. At night or while I'm alone I run repugnant scenarios in my head, ones where you're forced into a position where you have to choose between Sam and myself – one to live, one to die. You choose Sam each time. It should pain me, Dean. It should _hurt_. But it doesn't, because Sam's life over mine is the correct choice. We may share a bond, but it compares nothing to the one you share with your brother.”

 

 _Because I'm vermin. I'm unworthy of any kindness or warmth. I'm detestable and deserve to die_ was what he wanted to say. Cas' mouth stopped functioning before he could squeeze the words out. His tongue rested like lead and worse yet was how he sounded to himself. A chorus of narcissism and childish pity was all he could hear. Whatever hatred Dean had held for him was justified. How could he have fallen so far?

 

“Cas, I... I don't even know where to start.” And he truly did not. Not only hundreds of responses to Cas but of how he could relate, Dean's own tales of doubt that begged to be shared. Should he say that? Should he say nothing at all? The angel looked so uncomfortable in front of him as he experienced such a foreign array of emotions. It was _that_ again. The stature of frailty Cas exhibited when he became nervous, shrinking into himself. Could it be his grace doing that? Could Cas' grace recede and subsequently make his presence smaller? As maladroit as he may be, one could sense him in room before before he could be seen. Right now the angel seemed miles away.

 

Dean beckoned Cas to return next to him with a waved hand, and after realizing that his eyes widening as large as an owl's was the only movement Cas was going to make, Dean leaned forward to yank his sleeve and moved his ass for him.

 

“Alright, Feathers, I want you to listen up. I knew what exactly I was getting myself into with you, all your baggage and physical limitations. That means you being a man. Or a very small-chested and hairy woman.” Cas' transition from terror to offense almost made Dean snort. He needed that. “Either way is fine with me 'cause that's who you are. That body is yours, Cas. I don't want you... I don't need you to change it. Not being able to get married or have kids is all part of the package. Shit, a lot of other people are in our position, too. They seem pretty happy.” He looked Cas in the eye, hoping to convey some understanding. “They get by.” Offhandedly he added, “It's probably for the best that I don't have kids anyway.”

 

Cas appeared to be more hurt by what Dean had said than Dean himself. “Do you truly believe that?”

 

“What, you don't?”

 

Cas' smile was like a punch to the heart. “You would be an excellent father, Dean. You would make it your life's goal to do everything yours did not.”

 

Dean reeled. Oh God, he was not expecting that. They were beyond treading on dangerous grounds and instead were knee deep in it, speaking of his dad and an impossibility. No, the conversation would not continue in this direction. Stay the course. The tears stung bitter in his eyes but it was where they remained.

 

“To be honest with you? I'm pretty surprised to hear you say something like that, that you would change yourself for me. Stubborn rebel Castiel, Angel of the Lord, always doing things his way and to hell with whatever puny little mortals think. To hear that my judgment concerns you so much is–” Dean chuckled “–shocking. Never expected you to feel, like, guilty that you couldn't provide for me.”

 

“I'm surprised, also,” Cas said shyly. “Your opinion of me matters too much, which is why I have so many reservations.”

 

Guilt, disgust, mistrust, shame. It was all more than he could bear. The pain it ravaged from within was intolerable. When did this happen? Not just Dean but all humans? When did it begin to matter? After the rebellion? Maybe. The seed could have been planted then, but the sprout did not break the soil until much later.

 

“Speaking of opinion.” Well, this one was going to be rocky. Dean didn't want to address it at all and would rather sweep it under the rug like all the other rough topics, but it was clearly bothering Cas. If he was lucky, maybe this would be the last time Cas ever brought it up. But when has he ever had such luck? He must have been absent on the day God handed it out. “This Sam hypothetical.”

 

Don't dick around this one. Shoot straight. Cas can sniff out a lie and knowing that Dean did would more than likely be worse than what he was lying about. What he needs is what Dean's selling and has been since he was a child: a do-or-die attitude. Give em' hell even if it kills him. Even if it doesn't make sense.

 

He grabbed Cas by both shoulders and drew him closer, eyes locked onto his and unflinching. “I know this is going to sound cheap but you know I'm not gonna yank your chain. I'm sure right now there's some jackoff planning that very thing, getting me into some situation where I'd have to choose. Cas,” he gripped his shoulders tighter, “I'm am assuring you, right here and now, is that we'd kill the sonofabitchin jackoff before he ever got the chance. I will never have to make that choice, got that?”

 

“That's...”

 

“I know it's probably not the answer you expected or the one you wanted to hear, but it's the honest one. You want me to choose Sam because you're the host of the world's biggest pity party. Well it's too bad because I'm not letting you die so easily.” He smiled and for once it did not hurt. “No, you're going to die like we always do: painfully and slowly and triggering some catastrophic event. I don't want to hear any sassback on this, either; you're gonna listen to me for once.”

 

Dean let go of Cas and, not knowing what else to do with them, shoved them into his front pockets. “You probably don't want to believe me and that's cool. I, I just want you to know. It's not about sacrificing. I'm through with that crap.”

 

Cas shook his head, disappointed. “You would sacrifice yourself for Sam. If you were given the choice of your life for his again, how long would it take before you agreed?” As Dean turned around, Cas followed. “With time as your enemy you would not hesitate. No investigations or interrogations: you would die. So how can you look at me and tell me not to like you're completely justified!”

 

Thanatos was a word that came to mind quite often. Not only Death itself, which he and his hunter family were very well acclimated with, but what made the Winchester's bond so unstable: their death instinct. They both were so eager to die. Withdrawing, ignoring reality and believing the end was the inevitable solution. Maybe they couldn't give up the life was because they were far too involved to leave and not suffer repercussions for the rest of the lives; enemies have friends and some never truly die. Or maybe if they continued long enough, a death from which there was no revival for would finally put them to rest.

 

It was no life at all and Cas feared it was one he only made more difficult.

 

Dean turned away once again, this time facing his room's door and at first seemed to want to end this conversation by walking away, slamming the door and throw whatever he could find at the walls while screaming “Fuck you!” He stopped. His shoulders heaved.

 

“I've been having dreams, Cas,” he breathed out, barely above a whisper. “For a couple of weeks now. They're... none of them are good. Some start out fine. Some are pretty damn nice. But...” He rubbed at his stinging eyes. “In every god damn one I'm hurting you. Punching you, slicing you up, just, just _disfiguring_ you. I have your blood on my hands, the bed, the walls – fucking everywhere, and you know what?” Here Cas put a compassionate hand on Dean's upper arm and turned him, Dean offering no resistance. He didn't even notice. “You act like you _want_ it. You _want_ me to hurt you. Smiling at me and I do it. I keep hitting and stabbing because what kind of freak wants this?”

 

Dean's voice became erratic as thoughts poured forth, jumbled and sloppy. “I didn't realize until tonight, just now, why it's been happening. The problem isn't with aliens and alternate universes and other versions of me. It's all me, Cas. All of it. I hurt you 'cause...” He sniffled and wiped at an eye with the back of his hand. “'Cause you scare me. This. Us. I...”

 

Pause. Take a breath. I'll be OK. So he did, though it was not of much help.

 

“The dreams are kind of like real life, you know? I abuse you and you come back to me. It's because I want you to hate me. I wish from the darkest corner of my soul that you would. So I snap at you, yell or belittle you in some way hoping that this time you might just fly away for good. You never do. And every time you don't I get more attached,” Dean said as meekly as possible.

 

“But I don't want to! Because...” A tear freely rolled down his cheek and he couldn't be bothered to wipe it away. “Because everyone I care for... _love_ , leaves me. I can't do that anymore! For years I've tried to ignore it, becoming attached to people, but it still happens and every time it does something inside of me dies along with them. They take what I give. It hurts so much, so I end up doing the same to you.

 

“Cas, I've given too much to you. Please say you won't leave me. Tell me you won't die.”

 

Castiel knew he was overstepping his boundaries, but knew it had to be done. He caught Dean in an embrace, hugging him tighter than what may have been comfortable, but it was for good reason. As expected, Dean struggled against him, doing anything he could with his limited movement to wiggle free. Cas would not budge; trying to push him off of his feet was the same as pushing over the Statue of Liberty. As valiant as the fight was, Dean did not demand Cas to release him – only grunting as he struggled against the monstrous strength of one who cared more than he should have.

 

This aggression was not entirely Dean's fault as he said it was. The rippling effect Roland and Jillian had here were influencing him even though he was human.

 

Bonded was what they told him. A “bond of Dean Winchester.” Something that began long before Hell. Even the Castiels and Deans that were not romantically linked shared it, some more than others depending on their friendship. For ones such as the Dean and Cas here and now, sharing the same life, sharing the same fate, it was... extraordinary. What was cursing him now, his irrational fears, were being absorbed by Dean and manifesting itself as anger, amplifying his own anxieties.

 

So when Dean felt any kind of tenderness, specifically toward Cas who was at the epicenter, his natural defenses took over: deny, ignore, pretend it's not as serious as everyone thinks. But now a blind rage overcame him, his normal temperament exaggerated. To be near Cas or to hear his name caused that reaction, because it hurt no differently than the lash of a whip. Dean fell for Castiel and that could only lead to catastrophe.

 

That was the reason why Dean remained hesitant to sleep with Cas, wasn't it? In doing so Dean would be completely and undeniably committed. It would be an admission that yes, he did love Cas. He was protecting himself by remaining distant for when, inevitably, the angel did leave, he wouldn't be utterly destroyed. Self-preservation.

 

They were two little hedgehogs, so desperate to be loved and yet all they could do was hurt their partner in trying to do so. Instead, they tucked themselves into a tight ball and suffered alone. Castiel, immersed in melancholy. Dean, a fortress erected around himself to not only protect him from the outside, but them from him. They remained close, enough for their sharp quills to allow, but never where they needed to be.

 

Living... hurt. How could humans withstand such an onslaught?

 

Dean succumbed shortly after, arms going limp at his sides and resting his head on Cas's shoulder. Not a murmur or sob came from him, only deep, full breaths. Eventually Dean's hands wrapped around his waist.

 

He didn't want to lose this; something as simple as this. Cas proclaimed he could not comfort: he didn't know how to act or what the appropriate words to say were. But Cas was doing it right now by not doing anything at all. He was just there and... Dean wanted him to be there always.

 

That's not how things turn out in his life. Die, he'll diediedie and what will you have then? An empty back seat, a cold spot in your bed and another depleted bottle of Jack. This is Dean's future. Is this what you want? So much hard work and dedication to keeping people out and you'll give it all up. What gives you the right?

 

_Because... I want to be happy._

 

To hell with with happiness, you got a damn job to do.

 

Dean wasn't sure whose voice he was hearing, his own or his father's, but he squeezed his eyes shut, desperate to block either of them out.

 

No, that's not right. If anyone has earned a chance to be happy it's Dean fucking Winchester. Putting up with his old man and his shadow for his entire life, dying for the world and revenge and the enjoyment of others so many times he lost track; he was a wanted criminal and gave up opportunities like this way too many times for the sake of what? Protection? For whom? By turning away people whom he had cared for, who truly benefited? Both, perhaps. They would never have to be a victim of his lifestyle and in turn he cut off ties on his terms. It was for the best.

 

But Cas, Cas is different. Cassy's already neck deep in his world and stated that is where he wants to be. Armed with grace and a blade that doesn't look like it cuts well at all, he can fend for himself. As strong as he is, it does not exempt him from death, and that is always the final word.

 

Even if Cas didn't die, Dean would one day. Where does this leave Cas? What happens to him when he gets in that casket and doesn't come out? Unconsciously, Dean held the vessel's body closer to his own.

 

“I'm so fucking selfish,” Dean garbled into Cas' shoulder. “Telling you not to die and I...”

 

“You're not at fault, Dean.”

 

“I am,” Dean debated. “Feeling so damn sorry for myself while you're in the same boat as me. It's not right.”

 

“Our time may be short, but–“

 

“I don't want it to be short,” Dean desperately exclaimed. “I want to have a life with you. I'll get older while you stay the same. People will think you're my boy toy and I'm totally fine with that. A house in the woods and we'll have a golden Lab; she'll follow you around everywhere and you'll hate it. I want Sam to get hitched and have a kid because I'd be an awesome uncle. We'll go to their wedding knowing we had a positive influence on him or her. And when I die... I don't want to be in Heaven without you,” he managed to say weakly. “I can't stand the thought of you here continuing on without me. Disgusting, isn't it?”

 

Cas realized there was no correct way to answer. In fact, he was too affected to do much else but than what he was doing right now. So Cas offered what little comfort he could.

 

It drifts over Dean, comforting and familiar, like a scent you recall from childhood. Warm and calming and you get caught up in the moment, however momentary it may be. Cas is doing it again. His wings, or what Dean can only imagine as his wings. They protection they offered was more than any gun could give. Dean was safe here, between Cas' body and the encompassing presence of wings against his back. Why couldn't he have this forever?

 

“Cas, I...”

 

He smiled against the top of Dean's head. “You don't need to say it; I know. And I do, too.”

 

_I want to be happy, Dad. See this goofy angel in a man's body? He loves me. Our lives aren't going to be roses and sunshine, but we're gonna try. Because that's what we want to do. Together. I'm not going to make my life's goal to prove you wrong but you can be damn sure we'll do it in the process. I want to live for me, not for the job. And not for the future. I have Cas right now and this is where I want him to be. Where he wants to be._

 

The idyllic life sounded great in his head. When does it ever turn out that way, not just for him but for everybody? The dream life with the Barbie mansion and the car that cost almost more than that mansion, a job with good hours and excellent pay and you never once complained about being tired or overworked. Nobody has that. Demons may fear the name Winchester, but in the grand scheme of things he's just a regular schmuck riding a giant space rock. A dream was merely a dream.

 

Cas was not an illusion, something he could not touch and see. This was the present and instead of pining for what you don't or can't have, what he wanted from the start was right in front of him. The future, the dreams, those would be perks. The foundation was set; all that's left to do is to build upon it.

 

Castiel's warmth was different than what the weather produced. It was...

 

Dean lifted his head off of Cas and after hesitating briefly, red flashing like strobe lights in his head, his lips found the angel's own. It was exploratory at first as Dean had to force through violent imagery. Cas, perceptive as ever, noted the tension in Dean's face so instead of forcing him to continue, he tilted his head forward to brush foreheads.

 

An edgy laugh came from Dean. “Just like the first time, huh?” After steadying his breath he added, “You're like a cat with this head-butting thing.”

 

Cas squinted. “I thought I was a puppy.”

 

“Yeah, that too.”

 

Whatever magic it was, it worked. It always seemed to.

 

Dean tried once again, a hand snaking up Cas' back underneath his jacket, his tiny attempt at claiming Cas as his mouth did the same. Cas obliged as Dean's tongue beckoned entrance. It was as it should be, what it should have been for weeks. This was perfect and right; he didn't want to be anywhere else with anyone else. Cas' mouth was so warm and he did great things with it, things a virtuous angel should not know how to. His body was tightly pressed against his, _love_ and _compassion_ and every other beautiful poetic word Dean knew radiated from it. God, he loved Cas. This, this sensation, how could he deny it? Why would he find it necessary to push it away?

 

Cas... He deserves to know.


	12. Chrysocolla

In the short amount of time it took to return to Dean's room, his confidence level peaked and evened out; Dean was finally doing the right thing and he felt pretty damn good about it. Cool and assured, playing it just like Han Solo. A regular Fonzie he was. Thinking with both heads as well as his heart, he'd do what should have been done months ago. A good plan, a solid plan. It was one thing for Cas to know that Dean cared, but tonight he'd show it.

 

Scenarios work out much better in your head than they do once enacted. As he stepped back into the door to close it and heard the _click_ , a gong of terrifying realization resounded in his head. Dean's hold on Cas slackened, his mouth ceased functioning which lead the angel to hum in bewilderment against it, and his body became rigid enough to withstand gale-force winds. An unconscious mantra of _ohgodohgodohgod_ skipped like a record at the highest volume.

 

Fonzie just jumped the shark.

 

“Dean, are you...?” Watching Dean shake his head as though he were a child who had imagined a phantasm in his closet, Cas corrected himself. “You're not alright.”

 

“We're gonna, oh,” he managed to stutter out before throwing his head back into the door. _Ohgodohgodohgod._

 

Cas pulled Dean away, arms still wrapped snugly around him, before he could further injure himself. He could heal whatever damage occurred, of course, but he'd like to prevent it if he could. The kind gesture would help Dean retain some dignity.

 

It was quite clear that he was having seconds thoughts, and that was how Dean functioned, Cas reflected patiently. In situations where he set his standards too high, at least, absorbing himself in the moment until reality sat itself comfortably beside him. “Yes. You initiated.”

 

“I did, didn't I?” He licked his lips, mouth as dry as the Sierra. It was suddenly way too warm in here. Yeah, scorching. Dean needed a fan, the AC, an ice cream – _something_. Was Cas as hot as he was? Right. Of course he wasn't. Angels can't overheat or die from heat poisoning, they can't catch a fever and have their brain figuratively melt. Could they not freeze either? Does their body temperature remain steady at a healthy 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit?

 

Cas could sense Dean drifting away, a panicked expression frozen on his face. Thinking about something that had absolutely nothing to do with sex, he assumed. “Are you frightened at the prospect of losing something you're committed to?” They had only talked about this, but with was worth reiterating.

 

Shrugging his shoulders uncomfortably, Dean fumbled with his answer. “No, it's not that. Maybe. Just a little.” An arm released its hold on Dean and the hand found its way to his face, soft pads stroking slowly downward, gentle and reassuring and possessive all at once; a thumb traced the corner of his lips. Still bordering on hysterical he nevertheless leaned into it, but only fractionally. This was something Cas had done so many time before and it still had a hold on him.

 

Maybe it's because this became their “thing.” Couples had words they only said in front of each other, baby names, nicknames and the like. Others kissed a specific way or slept in bed another: something unique to those two people while they were together. Such was Cas caressing him in this way. Those hands healed. Those hands killed, sometimes to save Dean and his brother, dressed in the blood of demon and family. They rubbed his back when we awoke in a sheen of sweat from a particularly bad nightmare. They would run through his hair teasingly while Dean drove, Sam still trying desperately to understand why Cas did it, and when they kissed. There was always an excuse to be had.

 

Grace could have seeped from his fingers like it did when he healed someone. Or not. Being touched by someone who wanted to, wanted to be there with you, who loved you so unconditionally and purely, could very well have the same effect. Dean couldn't say and Cas wouldn't answer. So he never turns away, even now when he's about to pass out.

 

“ _You're_... and _I'm_...” He hung his head. “I'm fuckin' this up.”

 

Cas' lips found the spot where shoulder met neck and placed a benign kiss there. When Dean raised no complaints, he did it once more, this time the tip of his tongue tasting the spot before applying a mild suction. In doing this he had no fear that Dean would interpret it as being inconsiderate. He was not insisting, nor was he impatient. It felt... right.

 

Dean sighed through his nose and Cas took it as a sign to ask, “Tell me why you are apprehensive.” He kissed his shoulder one last time for good measure before setting his sights back onto Dean.

 

“You know.” Although his body relaxed once again into Cas's own, his sharp eyes caused Dean to flinch. In the bright afternoon sun or in the middle of nowhere at midnight, one could feel him gaze at them, questioning, learning, seeing things humans could not. Being studied in such a way could send a tickle up your spine. It was no fault of Cas's own, though. Never did he intentionally want to make Dean uncomfortable. Ardent curiosity was simply a part of what made Cas Cas. Directing his attention to the now very fascinating floor, a dark pool around both of their feet from what little light slipped through the windows, Dean grumbled, “You're, you're a virgin and I, um, never had sex with a guy before.”

 

“And?” Cas replied, blunt as always.

 

“And?! Your answer is 'And?'” Remembering Sam was just next door as well as other people inhabiting the complex, Dean hissed what would have been a shout with all the indignity he could muster. “You don't see what's so horrifying about that?!”

 

“No, I... Ah, I understand. You feel there is pressure on yourself to perform well because I am inexperienced, but you can't because you're also inexperienced.”

 

He didn't think it was possible: Dean became even more edgy. Having it said aloud was too much to handle. Sex was Dean's number one on the list of best ways to die. Never did he realize merely talking about it would cause his demise. Not fair. Not fair at all.

 

“Did it never occur to you I may also be nervous?”

 

Actually, no, it didn't. With such a cool exterior and even tone, it was difficult to tell what went through Castiel's mind. Cas could be a book sometimes, with no light to illuminate the pages. Cas, scared? What would cause him to be nervous? What kind of pressure did he feel?

 

Cas turned Dean to the bed, the back of his knees bumping against the edge and pushed him softly down onto it. “When I first came to you in the Impala I was terrified. With no hesitation, I asked you if you loved me and with that question I ran the risk of losing very much. I could have been wrong, and in doing so I faced the possibility of ruining our friendship, assuming what I had hoped would be there. In the end, my desire to know trumped that of the fear. I asked for myself; I needed to know. And now,” his voice lowered, almost coyly, “I run into a different type of apprehension. I may not be what you imagined, that you've set a standard in your mind of the reactions and movements... noises I would make. But my desire to try steads me and I have not feared it for some time. I'm very positive I will do something foolish and I couldn't care less. Because it's you, Dean.”

 

“Yeah, no pressure there,” Dean bemoaned glumly.

 

Cas sighed. If he didn't care for Dean's well-being so much, Cas would have shook him to death by now. Patience would be learned by trial, and Dean's consistent baby steps were definitely a test of it. He'd hobble on unsteady legs for only a few paces until he met another obstacle. To Castiel it could be seen as a hindrance. Instead, he saw it as Dean did: a source of immense frustration and anathema. He tried so hard to make what he had work to the best of his ability, treading out of his comfort zone for Cas regularly, and it was a source of pride, however small it was. Then he would come to an impassible object, only after coming so far. For someone with very low esteem, it made Dean loath himself even more.

 

“OK. Let's ameliorate this with a different perspective. In your dreams, how do you perform?”

 

“Well, um, pretty good, I guess.” Standing in front of him, Cas urged Dean to continue and he did, only after hesitating with a string of filler words. “I'm a lot more confident, that's for sure. Like I know what I'm doing.” _Which is why it's a dream because I clearly have no idea what I'm doing at any time._

 

“Are you possessed?”

 

“No,” Dean tried to recall. “I don't think I am.”

 

“Have you used magic or has any one else used magic against you?”

 

“Again, Cas, I don't really know.” He rubbed the back of his head. The questions were becoming a little too unorthodox for him. “There's no build-up, no casting couch interviews before the director wants you to strip. We're both beyond that when they start up.”

 

Cas was not condescending as he chided Dean. He took the tone of one helping another string together a logic puzzle, demonstrating how A connects to B and so on before the answer or destination is revealed. Dean needed to find out for himself how simple it truly was. “So you're unaided. There is nothing stopping you from enacting what occurs in your dream. I would... like to know,” he breathed, looking away from Dean as he said so. The words were more for himself than the other man listening in. Honesty had a way of slipping past your lips.

 

What _was_ stopping him? His pride? Of all the things it could be, pride should be very low on that list. Cas knew Dean intimately long before they had ever met. He watched him being born, the child growing into a teenager and the teenager a man. Every mistake, every pratfall, good and bad, embarrassing and sensitive and wonderful, Cas knew. Not even his dreams were not impervious from the angel's inquisitive mind. Even if it was entirely without his consent, Dean had never been more honest with anyone. Not even Sam. He bit the inside of his cheek. Especially not Sam.

 

Then what else could it be? He was so safe with Cas! Anything that happened between them was for them only; he wouldn't say a word unless Dean said it was fine to. Trust. He trusted his Cassy with their privacy. Any positive or negative outcomes would be under lock and key. So what? What was left?

 

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Only the psychosomatic response he had to years of living his life a certain way. The wall he saw separating him from Castiel was only an illusion. From his advantage it was no less intimidating than the Great Wall, spanning for thousands of miles and without the equipment to scale the blockade. But as he went up to it, faced it, touched it, his hand passed right through it like water, rippling away as it did. His mind punished him with roadblocks because that was he thought was supposed to happen.

 

Dean was so weary of illusions running his life. Thoughts dissipated, as fog did in the morning sunlight and just as intangible. He became so busy chasing shadows that he didn't consider Cas's own feelings. Something real. In front of him, something he could touch and smell and hear. Something that responded to him when he touched it; flesh that reacted. A voice to answer his questions, his cries. Solid and enduring and beautiful. Yeah. His beautiful defective angel, with perfection found in those very faults. Cas' personality and his mannerisms, logic or sometimes lack of it, while austere at times, was something he would never change even if given the opportunity. Cas was Cas. The dents and the dings made him unique.

 

And Cas, right here and now before him, told Dean indirectly as if it would inconvenience him, that he wanted to know his dreams, the same dreams he could intrude upon at any time but never did. He looked both timid and eager, if such a thing was possible. Everyone has the jitters the first time, Dean supposed, so no matter how confident Cas said he was, a part of him couldn't help but be anxious. It was... kinda cute. When their eyes made contact his eyes would dart around like flies. His feet wouldn't stop moving. It was then a soothing warmth spread through Dean's chest, seeing his angel fidget so after all that talk about not being nervous.

 

It was going to be OK. Dean did not need to assure himself anymore, because it was now a certainty. They were going to bumble through this together, just like everything else in their lives.

 

Swallowing down his awe, Dean then wrapped a hand around Cas' tie and tugged down slowly, slowly, until Dean lay back on the bed and left the dark-haired man no choice but to straddle his hips lest he lose his balance and sour the moment completely. He continued to pull until their heads bumped, the signal quite clear to Cas and he capitalized, placing unsure but needy lips to Dean's.

 

Something about the swirl of his tongue. Something about the heat. The way Cas' tongue would trace his lips when a kiss was broken only to continue again. The concentration he put into it, not because he wanted it to be perfect, but because he enjoyed the act so much. The simplicity and the passion of it all would make Dean flush from head to toe, and he would stop himself there before it became a much more combustible sensation; he forced himself to. Always had to remain in control. But tonight he could let that feeling linger as long as he wanted to, let it go where it wanted to, and to agree that he didn't _want_ the control anymore. He'd give whatever Cas needed and take what was given to him with no objections.

 

Dean eventually had to come up for air, breaking them apart and leaving Cas somewhat disgruntled. “Sorry, but human's gotta breathe sometime,” he joked between gasps. By the looks of it, Dean wasn't recovering quickly enough for his liking. Aw, his eager dog-angel headbutting cat nerd wanted so badly to continue. Well, he was going to have to wait just a little longer.

 

“You're gonna have to hop off me, babe.”

 

“Why?” Cas responded flatly, quick as a gunshot.

 

His fingers batted at the tie hanging between them. “Call me crazy, but I think we have on too many articles of clothing to even consider sex. We should take 'em off, hm?”

 

Cas nodded. “Yes, that's, um...” He quickly nodded once again ( _oh, god, he's such a nerd, it's gonna kill me I fuckin' swear_ ) and pushed himself off of Dean to standing while Dean sat up straight to toe off his boots. After removing his jacket, Cas looked about the room for the closest place to lay it.

 

“On the floor. Just like every other day.” It seemed Cas, too, had a schema for how intercourse that included himself would proceed. Apparently he put his clothes away for once. Did he think someone was going to come into the room in the middle of the act, two naked men in a knot of limbs on a bed, the sounds of sex in the air and the first thing out of their mouth would be how ill kept the room is? Dean wanted to laugh at the visual, but with Cas on edge before him, a quick grin with his chin tucked to his chest would suffice.

 

Something felt off. He couldn't quite put place what it was, but there it was, tickling the back of his brain. This, what they were doing right now... could be improved upon. Maybe that was it. Nothing was stopping him from being dream Dean but himself, right? So what would he do? What did dream Dean want? In nighttime reveries the focus wasn't as much on himself as it was Cas and what he got out of Dean's ministrations. A huge switch for him, but one he found himself enjoying. Cas' hands rubbing through his hair urging him to go further, further down; moans or growls of Dean's name coming from his lips, a voice that not so long ago sang of piety and adoration for his Father and family, or a gasp of surprise when Dean took him in further than expected or hit that perfect spot inside of him. The arms that clutched around his neck to pull him close and legs that pulled even closer, that was his sole focus: Cas. And even now he wanted it to be that way. That's what Dean did, always putting others' needs before his own.

 

Dream Dean wouldn't stand for this. Nope, not a bit. Fully seating himself on the bed and off to the side of it, he pointed to Cas then to the spot next to him saying, “Get on over here.”

 

Cas, who was struggling with his tie, stopped mid-yank and followed easily. In a way, he did, at least this first time, want Dean to take the more dominant role. He was more experienced so it was perfectly logical. Well, he forced it to make sense. This was a learning experience. Dean would lead by example and Cas would personalize. Then he remembers his human telling him, when their viewing of a soft-lit three-way lesbian porno got sidetracked by questions as was usually the case, that with sex, good sex anyway, you're constantly learning something. What a person likes or does not like, what you should do more or less of. Do they like it a little raunchy, or maybe tonight they don't want that. People get older and sensitivities change as well as tastes. Cas gave the laptop screen another concerning look and pondered why it looked so simple there, in which Dean replied, “Nothing is easy. Real life doesn't have make-up artists, multiple takes and an editing team. And guys that take a half hour to come. Not that I'm quick. I mean... Forget I said anything. Watch the god damn lesbians.”

 

Removing his shoes, Cas let them fall to the floor with a thud and maneuvered himself beside Dean, looking to him for further instruction. As Dean moved his legs underneath him to sit on the back of his own heels and attempted to affably console him. “It's usually a little more fluid than this. I, uh, I'm sorry if I'm...”

 

Cas' body faced against the light muddily soaking through the window curtains, making him nothing more but a shadow from this angle. But it was enough to perceive him shake his head only once before touching his lips to Dean's once again, mouths parted, recycling each others air and Cas finally connecting them. So damn sweet and wet, coaxing Dean silently into a control they both knew he had. As a roaming hand swept through his hair and pushed him closer to Cas, Dean moaned from deep within his chest, and it vibrated relief. Something as simple as that was something he could have never allowed himself to do; it was a sign of pleasure, arousal, and that was a tripwire line he could not cross. Tonight he was going to give in to the words he couldn't say, the little noises that become a soundtrack.

 

Cas became emboldened by the sound and without breaking the kiss crawled onto Dean's lap as close as comfortably possible. To his absolute joy, Dean did not resist in the slightest, accepting the body on top of him. There were many, many ideas running through his mind as to what he could do and what he wanted right now, but it wasn't the time, not yet. The human was going to set his own pace lest he be pushed too far too quickly. What he wanted? Oh... He had to consciously stop himself from grinding against Dean.

 

The kiss was broken by Dean, leaving Cas fairly disappointed until a moment later those lips latched onto his throat, the vein underneath pulsing against them. It was a cycle of suction and teeth and tongue, not enough to bruise the skin; he wasn't a teenager too eager to impress. All attention focused on that one spot, soft and warm. Cas turned his head aside to allow more access and encourage Dean to continue. Blissful. Mouth parted and eyes closed, the move surprised him, so effective in its simplicity. The thought of Dean doing this elsewhere on his body sent a shudder down his back.

 

Feeling Cas wiggle against his only drew him in harder, hand gripping Cas' raven locks and pulling back, exposing even more of the neck for himself. He traveled up, maybe a quarter of an inch further from the now reddening saliva-covered spot and clamped down once again. Only this time, much to Dean's delectation, a husky sigh escaped from Cas, arching his back to the assault. Something he had waited so long to hear. It went right through him, his entire body responding. Dean's hips bucked up from pure instinct, his pants becoming uncomfortable, suffocatingly close around him.

 

Again, he wanted to hear that again. Releasing the hold he had on Cas's skin and gripping his back for support, Dean lowered Cas down onto the bed. Hair tousled, tie still loosely hanging around his neck, breathing becoming more labored as did the rise and fall of his chest appear more distinct, and the tiniest patch of belly uncovered by shirt. Cas, he looked...

 

“Beautiful.”

 

Dean cursed under his breath. Damn word slipped out like a sneeze. But why should he feel embarrassed by it or regret saying it? He was being honest. Laid out before him, _for_ him, Cas was as gorgeous as any woman he's bedded or man he wished he could have. But looks were not the selling point, they never were. A bonus, yes, a bonus he kicked himself for not appreciating much sooner. But knowing Cas, how he is and what he is, showing such vulnerability and willingness, nearly took his breath away. Eyes of ocean, a being of contradiction, both innocence and guilt, and one that would do anything to protect him. He was beautiful. Of course.

 

“My vessel is satisfactory.” Cas meant it to be a question. Instead, as he said it, the words became a confirmation: Dean never said the words to appease him. He believed, too, that the body did not matter; Cas was Cas no matter what body he claimed. Although Dean did admit things would have moved more quickly if he had chosen a female. Complimenting his appearance was satisfying in a way he couldn't describe. It shouldn't have mattered, this flesh being no more that a suit. But Dean had said it, a word Cas thought he would never use to describe something, and it was directed to him. Maybe... maybe that was it.

 

“Yeah.” Dean unfastened the loose tie draped along Cas' chest, tossing it aside, and began the tedious process of removing the white shirt from the bottom button up. “Your vessel is definitely a good one.” He had to bite his tongue to refrain from just ripping the damn shirt off; too dark, too many buttons. Stupid sonofabitchin' shirt, come _off_ already. Judging by the steady gaze from Cas, he didn't notice the internal argument Dean was having with an article of clothing.

 

Finally, success was reached. Cas motioned to push himself off the bed to remove the shirt. Pushing him lightly back onto the bed, Dean insisted that he keep it on. For now, anyway. Wanting to waste no time, for himself (hesitation meant second guessing) or Cas, he unhooked the belt buckle and slid it out from underneath him. Dean's hand hovered over Cas' stomach for the briefest of moments, nearly the blink of an eye. This was it, huh? No turning back?

 

_Good._

 

Button unclasped and zipper pulled down, the slacks were eased off his hips and smoothly taken off, socks and all. He had seen Cas like this so many times, mostly bare and prone in bed. In those instances Cas was the gift he couldn't open, a treat from the oven that needed to be cooled before it could be eaten. A prize for Dean alone and he could not touch it. No. Don't touch. Don't you dare. What's wrong with you? Why are you doing this to yourself? So Cas could have never been appreciated during those times, as much as Dean wanted to shower him with affection. He could never look long enough to see the details of this body the angel resided in.

 

A smooth flat stomach parenthesized by hipbones Dean was used to seeing on models. Sharp as a knife, begging to be licked. Long, lean legs that only could have been sculpted by jogging. Sam and Jimmy would have gotten along just peachy. The same legs that would kick Dean while he was trying to sleep were the ones that wrapped around him during sex in dreams, using his strength as an angel to hold onto him like a snake - and sometime during his waking hours. He would fold Cas up, chest to chest and arms hooked under him as he moaned into Dean's mouth. Lewd vocals and the slap of skin on skin filled his ears, leaving room for nothing else.

 

Cas' soft hand around his wrist brought him back with a start. “Shit, Cas, I'm sorry.” He smiled hoping it would mask the tinge of embarrassment creeping along his cheeks. “No time to be daydreaming.”

 

“Judging by the look on your face, it was a pleasant one.” Out of all the novels Cas had read in his lifetime, Dean was by far the easiest of all to read.

 

He grumbled an agreement as he nudged Cas' legs apart to seat himself between them. Once the fallen angel got into one of his playful moods -and not a good playful, either- it was hard to get him to stop. Maybe over the years he decided to get back at Dean for all the times he had been flustered. He'd nip this problem in the bud for tonight, anyway.

 

Bending forward at the waist, Dean pulled down the waistband of Cas' shorts marginally, just enough for a line of dark hair to be visible and leaving those tempting hipbones completely exposed. He ignored them for the moment, though, wanting to hear Cas's reaction as Dean dipped his tongue into his belly button.

 

A leg nudged up against his ribs and the stomach beneath him tensed up; a very alien sensation caught him by surprise. Dean raised his eyes to see his reaction, but Cas looked to the ceiling, his brows pinched together as if he were contemplating if the feeling was pleasurable or not. Better than saying “Stop” or “What the hell is wrong with you?” There was a possibility it tickled him, that is if angels could be ticklish.

 

His tongue left a wet trail as he moved toward Cas' left hip, planting several suckling kisses along the crest of it. As he found his ministrations moving back toward the stomach, rotating between licks and kissing, a nibble on a particular spot of flesh elicited a gasp from Cas, his back end baring down and wiggling against the bed.

 

Dean, amused with his work, drawled, “Little tender there?” Cas met his eyes momentarily before Dean repeated the action once more.

 

Yes, it was a little tender. Cas slammed his head back as Dean continued to nip at his flesh. It took all of his self-control and then some to restrain himself from bucking against Dean, the surprising sensitivity of the spot drawing out physiological reactions he had no idea existed in Jimmy. Information about his sex life was positively the last thing he was going to divulge in to an angel. What a shame if Jimmy didn't know about this.

 

The blood of his body began withdrawing from his head traveling south; his heel dug into the mattress restlessly. Down. Dean needed to move down. Remove the only piece of clothing left on him, completely open to Dean, to be on him, in him. Pink lips were bit upon to quell a moan. The human was not the only one regretfully abstaining for these several weeks.

 

All of these involuntary reactions were bothersome and to a lesser extent, frightening, but he supposed that's what sex was: your body knew what felt acceptable and would respond ebulliently. The enigma of what he was truly feeling... was it his own, or was it Jimmy's? Is he acting in the same way Jimmy would have? Less? More exaggerated? More importantly, did it matter? No. Not at all.

 

Cas grabbed a fistful of Dean's shirt, near the neck, and yanked him up, startling the man who had otherwise been busy until that point. As graceful as a bellyflop, Dean's weight-bearing hand slipped out from underneath him and his chest landed heavily against Cas' own. He didn't seem to mind, Dean observed.

 

“You wanted something, Cas?” Dean asked hazily.

 

He released the shirt and stroked his hand down, encouragingly closing around Dean's bicep. “I didn't want to seem eager. Should have held steady. But...”

 

“What do you want?” He practically hummed.

 

“More. Please.”

 

Dean knew Cas could hear him swallowing, so loud it could have echoed. Cas just... Cas just begged him. Cas _knew_ how to say that? It didn't sound like he was reluctant or diffident either, but sure, absolutely sure of what he wanted and how uncharacteristic it may have been.

 

Red again, a shock beginning at the base of his brain and striking down the spine. Blood of vampires slicking his hands and pushed so far into his nails that some still remained despite showers and vigorous scrubbing with water and soap. So much of it. Where did it all come from? Nausea. A voice entreating him to stop.

 

“It's not real,” Cas murmured into his ear. His hands trailed Dean's tightened back before clasping together and pulling him crushingly close. Cas nudged his cheek affectionately against Dean's own, passing his lips as light as a brush stroke against the other's. Until the moment passed, he would wait, all night if necessary. This was a fight only Dean could participate in.

 

 _He's too nice to me_ , Dean's inner monologue began. _He's so fucking patient and kind. I want to deserve a guy like him._ But Cas said he did, right from the start. Dean Winchester is deserving of happiness. He has earned it time and again. So do it. Give yourself a little joy by seeing it in Cas. This – these nightmares are only temporary, a blinding light in your eyes that will soon return to normal; a little painful, but it won't kill you.

 

Dean sighed, expelling undesirable thoughts with it. No more of that bullshit tonight and no more interruptions. No embarrassment. Pushing himself back up and wiggling out of Cas' embrace, Dean moved to the foot of the bed once again. He drew an inquisitive hand down Cas' flat stomach and slowly, _slowly_ , to the front of his shorts, palm resting against the length half-hard from the teasing earlier. And Dean was right... No hesitation, no embarrassment. The heat under his hand felt right. Cas languidly thrusting his hips against the friction as Dean began to rub felt _right_. Head tossed back exposing the neck he restrained himself from latching onto. It was pretty damn hard not to.

 

No words or noises came from Cas, although Dean could easily tell that he wanted to. He didn't comprehend why Cas would do that but decided to not bring it up. Once Cas was ready, or couldn't hold back anymore, he would. The hardening against his fingers was all the aid he needed to show Dean that he was doing something right.

 

But he wanted more. Since the man playing the role of Dream Dean was Dean Winchester, he felt very inclined to do just that. He grabbed the waistband of the shorts with both hands and pulled them down, Cas pushing off the bed with his heels to help. The dim room made details difficult to ascertain, but seeing Cas' cock rest against his stomach, fine dark hair underneath, reality crept upon him like the dawn. Would he... could he... all of that?

 

Yeah. Yeah, of course! Dream Dean, remember? Cool and confident, making Cas sing like one of them broads with the viking helmets. Until he started to beat him bloody that is... Well, tonight wouldn't be that night!

 

Dean smiled to himself. And he called Cas the idiot.

 

The fit was on the uncomfortable side as one leg dangled off the end of the bed while Dean bent the other to remain on it for some leverage. If Cas sat up against the headboard he would be able to lay on his stomach in a way that was less compromising, but he wanted Cas to remain right where he was. Didn't want to be a bother? You're getting soft in your old age. He urged Cas' legs further apart by patting the inside of his thigh.

 

Cas was anticipating Dean to continue with the handjob and, honestly, that was all he was expecting from Dean for the night, and there would be no disappointment because of it. Whatever Dean gave him was a gift. His shock was hardly contained when Dean took only the head into his mouth, sucking against it like a lollipop and tonguing against the slit. A throaty gasp threatened to slip by but was caught and promptly pushed down. It didn't stop his mouth from gaping and back from arching.

 

It was much different than he expected, the occasional masturbation -which Dean wanted to very much know about- and Dean's attention before prepared him not at all for the heat, the slickness of his mouth, and how soft a tongue truly was as it swirled circles around the head. So this is why Castiel's brothers and Dean enjoyed sex so much; it was easy to see the addictive quality to it. A body could come to crave this sensation: the thinking mind retreats and all you can feel is _good_ radiating in every direction, warmth running through your veins like a drug or few too many shots of whiskey. Like other vices, some relied on this, how everything that may be going on in your life tapers off to one fine point while you lay naked and prone in front of someone.

 

Not thrusting into Dean's mouth took as much willpower as it did not to make noises. Dean wasn't ready for that, right? He would gag and may never do this again. No, that would not be advisable. And maybe Dean wanted him to be noisy. Women were. Men who were not visibly aroused were. Something like that was expected so it was only prudent he do so. It felt absolutely fantastic in spite of Dean being a novice, he just... couldn't get himself to force it out. Controlling his body meanwhile was much harder.

 

His head tossed fervidly on the pillows, open mouth grasping air in erratic bursts, and Dean took his time going further down, relaxing the best he could but remaining cautious of his teeth, and sucking in his cheeks. The fidgeting of his silent angel were enough motivation to continue what he was doing, shaky sighs sending a jolt through his abdomen. These jeans would have to go real fucking soon. Besides, holding back only encouraged Dean to push down more, eager to find out what it took for Cas to say his name.

 

As Cas finally nudged the back of his throat Dean knew that was as far as he'd be able to take it for today, which was absolutely fine by him; Dean did far better than he expected. The exclamation from Cas above him was further proof. He grabbed Cas' cock by its base and stroked slowly, teasingly, several times before placing his mouth back on him, hand and tongue coaxing in unison.

 

It sounded so lewd, slurps and the pop of suction being released, the humming vibration of Dean around him approving of whatever squeaks or grunts he happened to make. Too much, too much. Sensory overload was occurring. This moment was years in the making, something he waited for until the time was right, and now it was happening and Dean, he was in Dean, urging him to orgasm, close, so so close to coming, pressure building and this was absolute rapture...

 

Cas breathlessly called out Dean's name and pushed himself up to sitting. Well, Cas said his name but not for the right reason, it appeared. He let go of the angel and looked up to him. “Somethin' wrong?”

 

After taking a gulp of air, Cas said, “You.”

 

“ _Me_?” Where the hell was he going with this?!

 

Cas growled at Dean's misinterpretation. “No. You too.” Dean looked only more perplexed. There was no way he could be such a dolt on purpose. Showing Dean would be the best course of action. “Up” was the simple order he told as well as did, resting on his knees and Dean cautiously following. Why was he...? Well, like he should have expected anything else. Cas inched near flush to Dean, hands on the bottom of his t-shirt pulling up as he raised his arms over his head unconsciously. Lips and teeth latched onto Dean's collarbone before he could even lower his arms. Not gently, but it wasn't intended to be. Cas wanted to taste him, mark him once again, feel him in a way his grace could not.

 

The attention toward Dean's freckled shoulders was soon diverted south when Cas, now on all fours, lapped at his nipple like a cat at water. It was when Cas took it between his teeth and gave the most innocuous of bites that Dean wished that this had happened to him much, much sooner. Why had no woman he had ever been with done this, and why the hell didn't he ask? One last flick and Cas moved on to the other side using the same methodology of noisy suction and wet tongue.

 

“Cas...” was all he managed to get out before he let out a no-so-discreet moan. In his mind he saw Sam and the faceless owners of the cars in the parking lot and, much like the heat lightning outside, he extinguished the thought. To hell with 'em. We're all adults here, right? He ran a hand though Cas's silken hair hoping it would encourage him, goading him on because whatever he was doing was a little bit of magic.

 

The pants needed to go. They could go to China for all he cared, as long as they weren't on him any longer and uncomfortably restraining his erection. Dean told Cas to stop his sloppy assault so he could be free to wiggle out of the denim, even though he desperately wanted that to continue. Cas did not appear pleased with the order but obliged by sitting up and sitting on his legs once again, removing his now wrinkled dress shirt. A steel blue gaze bore straight through him, Dean knowing they were seeing more than he could. How did he truly appear to Cas? Was what he was seeing any different than normal?

 

He undid the button, watching Cas studying him, the leering of his soul that should have been unsettling but now would be missed if it were to vanish one day. Cas' breathing was quickening again, the rise and fall of his chest almost entrancing. Just what was he looking at?

 

Feeling Dean's eyes on him, Cas slowly raised his gaze to meet Dean. “I'm sorry about that. You're... um.”

 

“You're gonna have to speak up, babe.”

 

“You're...” He shook his head. “You would be embarrassed. I'd rather not say.”

 

“'You're going to have sex with me?' Yeah, that's the direction this train's goin', but I don't see how that's embarrassing.”

 

Cas considered. “Yes, that too. But I meant...” He was lost to Dean once again, a beatific smile gracing his features. Lost in Dean may have been more appropriate. A coal turned diamond. Washed clean of dirt and mud by cleansing rain. The raw energy of a star condensed but emitting a different kind of heat, one that would not burn if one ventured too close. Maybe not forever, but for tonight it cooled enough, just enough, to allow another star to join it.

 

Dean was glowing and he would never know.

 

“You're such a space cadet.” As Dean was about to remove his pants, a realization hit him like a smack upside the head. Sex? Embarrassment? Oh god, that's right.

 

Concerned with Dean's altered state, Cas asked, “Is something the matter?”

 

After a string of “Uh's” and “Um's” crossed the minute mark, the Winchester rose from the bed, shoulders slumped and pulling at his sagging pants, and knelt beside the nightstand where he kept his clothing bag. Now, what compartment did he keep them in? It had been several months since the last time they were used, so were they even still in there? Buried under loose socks and shirts, or over on this side with the toothpaste? Or maybe left at home, accidentally thrown in with the laundry? Maybe not. Sam would have left the evidence of that in a high traffic area like the kitchen with a note underneath: _Found these in your pants pocket, thought you might want them back. P.S. Ew._

 

Muttering negatives as he searched (and turning the contents into such a wreckage that FEMA would need to investigate), Dean's hand came across what he was looking for. Cas watched, not needing light to see what his mate was doing.

 

“Cas, do you, um... have a preference? That's not right.” Dean scratched the back of his head. This decision would have been infinitely easier to make if Cas were human. “I mean, do angels...?”

 

Dean had certainly piqued his curiosity. “Show me what's in your hand,” he suggested soothingly.

 

“Yeah... Yeah,” he repeated with slightly more confidence. “I know angels possessing women can get knocked up and guys can impregnate regular women, but can – I mean, not that I am or anything, don't let Sammy tell you anything different...”

 

“Say your words, Dean.”

 

He held a silver foil casually between two fingers and resigned. “It's up to you, knowing more than I do about this sort of thing and, uh, the other reason.”

 

“Ah. You wonder if by having unprotected sex either you or I would contract something.” He saw Dean nod in the shadows. Telling him about his kind, stories or background information, were small moment he relished. As much as he delighted in learning about humans, Cas was quick to offer tidbits about his family. “Angels can become ill, but only through spells and magic and normally are not contagious; the magic can vary. As for contracting something a human has, not that you have anything-” Dean mouthed the words _thank you_ “-no, we cannot. Diseases and viruses do not affect angels.

 

“The 'other reason' is ejaculating inside of me, correct?”

 

Dean nearly choked on his own breath. No casual segways for Cas, none at all. “Yup, that's, that's right. Unless you want me to pull out because I can totally do that, too.”

 

Cas seriously considered the question, tilting his head to the side. With a pleasant demeanor he answered, “I guess I can't dislike something I've never tried before. It's called barebacking, right?”

 

“Jeez, you make it sound so dirty,” Dean joked genially, grabbing another item from the bag before standing back up and moving back to the bed. “Not the good dirty either. More like a sleazy risky paid-to-have-sex-on-camera dirty.” He was met with Cas' hand extended flat in front of him: stop. Stop talking? Stop moving? What? Strong fingers held tightly onto his waist and pulled him in closer, where Cas leaned forward placing surprisingly gentle kisses on Dean's stomach. They traveled lower as well as those fingers, looping under the waistband of his boxers and pulling them down along with the jeans to mid-thigh. Roaming lips stopped just under his belly button, Cas' chin nudging and rubbing against the head of Dean's erection each time. The contact -or rather the lack of it- was deliberate, mouth hovering so painfully close to where he needed it to be and the airy touches of scratchy skin teasing and torturing Dean all the more.

 

Cupping his cheek, Dean delicately drew Cas away from him and tilted his chin up, the details of every emotion the angel had coursing through him at this moment displayed as fine and clear as any paintbrush put to paper, darkness or no darkness. All of it a list of what made him love Cas in the first place. “Lay back,” he said quietly. Not a suggestion or a demand. It just was.

 

Castiel did so amicably and rested his head on one of the pillows on the bed, curious as to what Dean held in his hand. How amazingly heady this sex thing is. One gets overwhelmed in positions like this. His only concern, his only worry, desire, need, was to have Dean on him once more, his mouth, his hands, his body. For Dean to be in him and filling him, not dreading the discomfort is may cause. Cas inhaled it all like a smoke, cloying every sense within his body and grace. A pillow was taken from beside him and Dean ordered him to lift his hips, and the regrettably flat pillow was placed under them. Again he didn't understand the purpose of this, but Dean knew best.

 

The pop of plastic drew his attention down to where Dean sat between his legs. “Lubrication?” Cas raised an eyebrow.

 

“Of course,” Dean said like it should have been obvious. Well, it _was_ obvious, even to Cas. So why was he being stared at like that? “Oh... Oh! Probably wondering why I have this at all considering sex was never offered on our menu. You see,” he held the small bottle up, displaying it like a tool for his car, “this is a remnant of my 'I swear I don't like Cas' days. Some women... well, once again, porn lets us down with its inaccurate representation of sex. They like to have you think women are a Slip 'n' Slide, all loose and wet and ready in less than 3 minutes. It's not. That's why we have Mr. K.Y. here, complete with His and Her warm and tingly water-based lubricants.” Dean halted, growing grim. “Stop... stop looking at me like that! I'm not cheating on you!”

 

After a moment of silence between the two, Cas turned aside and did nothing more to hide the devilish grin on his face. “You little shit. You're getting yourself off tonight.” A lie, of course, but an empty threat was better than none at all.

 

Dean coated two fingers as Cas regained composure, watching him with rapt attention as Dean grew more solemn. “I know I can't hurt you much by doing this, but if it gets to be too uncomfortable or anything, don't hesitate alright? Just slap me or kick me or something.” Cas nodded, drawing his knees closer to himself and tried to tilt his hips up to allow easier access for Dean. “You don't need to do that.” A thumb stroked Cas' hip as he gingerly pressed his index finger inside.

 

There was no tensing around him as he expected; Cas was rather lax, looking up at the ceiling with his eyebrows drawn. Concentrating again and trying to figure out how he feels about this new sensation. It was pretty comical given the circumstance. “Not the look I was going for, Cas,” Dean said, between dejection and complacency. He pulled out slightly and wiggled in hopes of stirring some reaction out of Cas, yet he remained austere as ever.

 

“It is... invasive.”

 

Dean snorted. “No shit. Does it hurt?”

 

“No,” Cas was quick to interject. He repeated more slowly, “No.” He tilted his head down, benignity on his lips. “This will not break me. I'm not a porcelain doll to mollify and coddle simply because I've never had sex. Don't restrain yourself. The discomfort is temporary if you allow it to be.” With that he implied Dean rather than himself. Dean was trying too hard to make his first time perfect and in doing so was taking himself out of the act, becoming mechanical and delicate. “Add another and do what you want, not what you think I expect.”

 

An invitation to treat Cas like anyone else he has bedded, more or less. Which could be alright, he supposed, even if he wasn't like anyone else. Right now he wanted no special treatment; he wasn't a snowflake that would melt upon a touch, nor was he that damn sensitive psychologically. A little confused at times, but tough as a diamond to break.

 

Dean slid another finger in, meeting the same resistance as before, although this time Cas squirmed from discomfort or pleasure, Dean couldn't tell. It was tight, too damn tight, hardly enough leeway for his fingers. An electric current shot through his brain and Cas was in chains again, blood and meat on display and almost the entirety of his hand was inside Cas' stomach, relentlessly thrusting against sloppy guts and he laughed. That was the reality. That would be as intimate as they could ever get. The wound was the only way Dean could ever be inside of him.

 

 _Not real. Notrealnotreal._ Dean held in a deep breath and slowly exhaled, hoping the small act would calm him as it was all he _could_ do. Above him, Cas said nothing, knowing exactly where Dean was, and rode it out with him.

 

He had to focus on something else. Cas. The real Cas. The real Dean. Scissoring his fingers unexpectedly caused Cas to gasp out in surprise and brought some of Dean's senses back to reality. He thrust in deliberately several more time before doing so again, Cas struggling not through pain but wonderment as he adjusted. When he turned his palm up and made a hook of his two digits, the moan Cas emitted went straight to his groin and brought Dean out of his haze. And he clamped down on him, completely encased in heat, like Cas had any room to spare before. He finally did it. Dean got his little blackbird to chirp, and it was the hottest fucking thing he ever heard.

 

In between the short thrusts and loosening wiggles he would repeat that, rubbing that one spot inside the angel that practically had him purring at Dean's command, head lolling to the side. No pain, no cold iron imprinting itself upon skin and no metal scraping bone. He wouldn't let that happen tonight, not anymore, and do what Dream Dean could not.

 

“Another,” Cas bit down on his lip as his long fingers wrapped around himself and began short but firm strokes. This time Dean did not question Cas's reasoning or contemplate his comfort; if Cas didn't like what was being done to him, Dean would known the second it happened. With the way Castiel gyrated his hips against Dean's hand, and both the relaxation and adjustment of his body and mind as he became more vocal, it was pretty obvious that the Winchester was succeeding. He did as was told, sliding his ring finger in easier than the first two despite the cramped fit.

 

“It's...” Cas started before Dean moved once again and a moan overtook him.

 

“What is it, Cas?” Dean drawled, enjoying the show before him.

 

He wanted to say “it's not enough,” but his damnable mouth kept betraying him. What Dean was doing now greatly surpassed his expectations and don't fix what is not broken. But he wanted... he _needed_ Dean with him and taking part fully now, not later.

 

The unique aspect of their relationship, long before physical intimacy, was the shared ability to silently communicate with each other.

 

They locked eyes, Cas's almost luminescent from the way the outside lights reflected on his face, both as equally entranced by the other. Long gone was the boastful yet still shaky Cas from earlier, as were Dean's nightmares and fear of disappointment. This moment was theirs, a tiny bubble in time where nothing and no one could interfere with what they did. They did not exist to anyone but themselves. Cas practically fucking himself on Dean's fingers and touching himself and those moans, everything that made Dean want to explode, because it was only him and Cas... he felt safe with Dean, to take care of him now and protect him later. Even angels can fall short. Especially angels. Unwavering trust and love and...

 

 _Oh._ Because... oh. He almost asked Cas if he were sure about this, then realized there was no point in asking: it was absolute. Besides, he seemed to have made up his mind outside. A dull throb remained pulsing on his temple but was easily ignored. Dean withdrew his fingers and coated the same hand with lubricant to cover himself, stomach knotting up somewhat and, euphorically, not for the reasons it has been lately. Just anticipatory jitters, and they were welcome. He felt like a novice again.

 

Cas felt Dean inch closer to him on his knees and heard a rumble of amusement in Dean's throat. After shooting him a questioning look, Dean replied “Don't worry your pretty little head. Thinkin' good thoughts for a change.” He'd allow the Winchester boy to employ his vagaries for now as he was left feeling empty and eager to be filled again. Mentally scolding himself for sounding like a whore did not last long. Was it wrong to become lost in something ascetically denied to oneself for millions of years with the only person able to move you to such an act? Yes, a reprieve was in order. So as Dean lined himself up and slowly, so slowly, began to sink in, he embraced it. He and Dean had earned this. If excessively enjoying the attention given to you by someone you love, then maybe he was a whore.

 

“Son of a bitch, Cas.” Dean couldn't stop himself from hissing out. It felt like loosening Cas didn't do a damn thing. Then again he might be purposely clamping down around Dean. No matter. Although he had only managed in the head so far, the pressure was certainly not something he was used to, as was abstaining from a condom. So warm, and he could feel everything and... son of a bitch.

 

“...Am I hurting you?” Cas asked skeptically. Wasn't that supposed to be said to him?

 

Dean tittered. “No. Let's just say we're both adjusting.” When Cas pressed his knees closer together, both touching Dean, he hooked one over his right arm, taking a small comfort in holding him almost like a security blanket; the other hand gripped Cas' side tightly. As delicately as he could, Dean pushed further in, bit by agonizing bit, putting no restraint on the flow of cursing and moaning, which Castiel seemed to take much delight in.

 

Replete. Dean was fully settled now. Full. Content. Satisfied. He sighed. Perhaps it should have felt uncomfortable, but it wasn't. It was supposed to be this way. Melting into the bed was certainly possible. Their voices filled the room when Cas bucked his hips, so desperately wanting Dean to continue he could not help himself. The message was received, deliciously slow thrusts rewarding the both of them. Yes, he was going to melt away, soaking right into the bed to never be heard from or seen again. Dean would never pull completely out, leaving a tiny bit of himself there before bottoming out, hips flat against Cas

 

His cock lay aching and unattended on his stomach, desperate for relief. With Dean holding his leg aloft and about to leave a hand-print bruise on his body, that attention would have to come from Cas. Licking his palm, he wrapped a hand around himself, thumb teasing the slit and underside of the head for a moment before drawing his fingers down to the base and back up, the pace somewhat faster compared to Dean's. Once Dean was knocked out of his daze from watching Cas stroke himself, free arm clutching at the headboard and open mouth breathing heavily, he took that as a cue to speed up.

 

“Cas... fuck,” Dean strained, the volume of his skin slapping again Cas's gradually growing. “Fuck” was all his mind allowed him to say; forming complete sentences was a difficult a task as reciting pi.

 

Cas beckoned with his hand, waving it toward himself, and ordered Dean “Down,” although his voice wavered. Dean knew it wasn't a stern request, but the nerd had a way of making anything he said sound like a demand. That tone of his, it could make him sound irritated when he was in fact... well, tolerant of something. So he did as was asked of him, Cas wrapping the untouched leg around Dean as he lowered his chest close to Cas's own, arm still elevating around the other. He rested on his forearm, digging it into the bed so he wouldn't crash atop of the angel whose hand was still diligently at work between themselves.

 

A hand brushed against Dean's face, soft pads grazing whiskers, and his dampening hair. Dean could see it in his eyes: Cas was somewhere else, _looking_ somewhere else. It was a look of admiration, the ghost-like touches studying something precious and valuable. There was nothing sexual in them – the look or the touch. Dean was reminded of his Baby; he did the very same thing with her. With Lisa. Using his body, Cas was saying _This is mine_. _This human, this soul, they are mine. And I can't believe it._

 

Still wrapped in Dean's hair, Cas pushed his head down to meet his own where lips brushed before Dean bridged the gap. The human tasted so good, too good, and now very aware of what the tongue was capable of. Cas had to break it to moan, arching his neck back and the opportunity to assault it did not pass by the hunter unnoticed. His hand quickened its movement: it wouldn't be much longer now. Dean at his throat, moving inside him, and himself, all trying and succeeding at milk an orgasm out of him.

 

“Dean, I... mmm.”

 

He chuckled hotly against his throat. “I know. Me, too.”

 

_Cas, I..._

 

_You don't need to say it; I know. And I do, too._

 

Funny how life has a habit of repeating itself.

 

In another universe, at the very moment, an alternate version of himself was making love to an alternate version of Cas for the first time, in most cases just like this. Even if he didn't know them or never would know them, knowing they too put aside their burdens just for a little while and whatever held them back and do what should have been done years ago, was damn near beautiful. He was happy for them. There was the opposite side of that coin, worlds where he and Cas were enemies, or either one of them or both were dead, where Dean was never saved, even the champagne dreams and caviar wishes life some others had... but he couldn't think that way, not anymore. He would drive himself insane that way, contemplating of all the ways he would lose Cas and his brother. No. He would deal with this life, one that he'd do every damn thing in his power to maintain. It was a shitty one, but it was his.

 

Underneath him Cas' breathing was picking up, leg squeezing down on him like a damn bear trap; Dean was going to stay put. Not like he intended on going anywhere. The look on Cas' face was one of surprise, like he was shocked the buildup to an orgasm could be so intense. Dean could feel the pressure building in Cas also as he tightened around him. Too much more of this and Dean would be quick to follow.

 

Maybe he did it unconsciously, coincidentally, or absolutely on purpose. Whatever the reason was, an electric shock coursed through Dean when Cas grabbed his arm exactly where the imprint used to be, just as hard as he held Cas before. He knew, he just had to. His rhythm wavered momentarily before steadying.

 

“ _De-ean._ ” There was no way Cas would climax quietly, nope, not going to happen, negative, an impossibility. He was glad Cas was finally able to huskily moan out his name like he wanted, but vociferous enough for Kevin to hear him was not planned. Doing the only thing he could do in such short notice, Dean clamped down his lips on Cas' as he came, the sticky fluid splashing onto both of their stomachs, and Dean was glad he did. Only when he began to pant did Dean release him. Never for a moment did the hand release his arm.

 

As Cas' body urged Dean to do the same, he knew it wouldn't be long. The flush on his face was visible despite the lighting. It was pretty cute. Cas leg limply slid down from his waist, the rest of his body following suit and becoming like jelly.

 

A few more frantic thrusts and Dean came, chanting “fuck” through gritted teeth into Cas's shoulder. Wave after wave hit him, relentless and feeling damn near endless. But of course, like all good things in life, it ended, leaving him too like gelatin. Unable to hold himself up any longer, Dean slid himself down onto Cas as slow as sap on a tree and in doing so dislodged himself, a groan slipping out of both men as he did.

 

Cas was left feeling empty at the loss of Dean, but was complete in other ways. Dean didn't want to move, not ever. To hell with everyone, he was staying naked with Cas in bed for the rest of his life. Castiel would zap them back to the bunker and that's where they'd stay. That seemed like a very sound life.

 

All was quiet other than heavy breaths trying to regain composure. A film of sweat covered Dean from both the heat of the summer and exertion and that was fine for Cas was not offended by bodily functions such as those; Dean was simply trying to cool himself off. They lost track of time. It was dark out still and that's all they needed to know. Cas could feel semen dripping out of him and onto the bed. Luckily angels had their own methods of instant dry cleaning. Warm... this was warmth. Nice.

 

A dulcet kiss to the forehead and Cas whispered into Dean's ear, “I'm still here.”


	13. Epilogue

Sam debated on whether he should knock on Dean's motel room door or not. Not that he was in a hurry to go anywhere in particular: the suffocatingly soupy humidity of the past few days was now less likely to cause suffocation, the small reduction a paradise in comparison. So waiting outside in the mid-morning sun was not as excruciating and moist as it once could have been.

 

Earlier yesterday Sam and his brother had both decided that today would be the day to head home. Though they found the cause of the murder in this area, finding a solution to the cause was, at the moment if not completely, out of their hands. Either the world would repair itself from the damage caused by rebellious god-like creatures, or it would not and it would be up to people like them to adjust to the new tactics and methodology the forcefully reeducated ookie spooky ghoulies had, which seemed to be none at all. Dean groaned, positively miserable, at the prospect of a permanent change, and rightfully so. John's notebook, years of practice and training would be for naught.

 

And that was only considering creatures and spirits. What about humans? Magic, in all of its forms, touched a plethora of humanity, like witches (both from the north and the west) and psychics. Would they also show signs of change? Were they already?

 

The “unexplained.” Was that what alone made something or someone susceptible to having their personality altered and doing what is usually abnormal to them? Like Dean. Sam had his theories about his brother's aggressive behavior, none of which did he think he could ever confirm or deny. Dean was chosen, destined, to be the body of an archangel, and maybe that taint is never purified, even if another vessel was found.

 

There was Cas, too. They were close, close long before they shared a bed. They touched and made contact with what made them them, Dean's light soul gripped protectively in the divine hand of an angel, fighting through the angry fires of hell to save him from an eternity of torture, both giving and receiving. This happened to Sam, of course, but in the end was much, _much_ less romantic. It was something that, even after so many years to heal the wound and trying to repent by absorbing Sam's insanity into himself, still shamed Cas. He could see it whenever Cas looked at him, a doleful look in his eyes that prevented them from being friends by more than title. It more than likely explained the dot of animosity between them. The angel was hurting. Someday, sooner rather than later, Sam was going to borrow Cas to smooth out that blemish in their relationship. The three of them have fucked up too many times, hurting too many people, to let problems from the past come between them.

 

Sam decided against knocking. Dean may still be in a mood, queued up to tear off limbs at the slightest annoyance, and if something like that could be prevented it was worth doing. From what he heard last night, Dean's possible outlook could be just that. No rush.

 

A growl of a rumble came from Sam's belly. OK, maybe rush, just a little. Could there be a snack in his bag somewhere...

 

He headed around to the driver's side to pop open the trunk, hoping to find the invaluable treasure of a granola bar either in his bag or -god help him- if it slipped out and became crushed underneath the weight of guns, ammo and other assorted weaponry the two stored here. It would be as good as lost.

 

Fortunately for Sam, Dean, with a bag filled with undoubtedly sweaty clothes slung over his shoulder (red stained clothing from a couple nights prior remained tucked away in the corner of the trunk, a dirty reminder of something neither were willing to bring up), walked out of his room. Alone. Not the best sign.

 

When Dean caught a gaze of his brother, he came to a slow stop, considering him. “What's with the look?”

 

“What look?” Was he really making a face? Didn't feel like it.

 

“The one you're giving me right now. That 'my brother is going to pound my face into the pavement' mug you have going on.” His voice lowered. “What did you do?”

 

Of course. He has sex with Cas and on the same day Sam starts the apocalypse again. Figures. Isn't that what they call equivalent exchange? Did he just compare intercourse with the end of the world? Yeah – not that it mattered anymore. Sam doomed them all to death. Again. The Winchester curse strikes again.

 

“I didn't do anything! Just...”

 

Dean snagged the keys out of his pants pocket and made his way to the trunk. “'Just' what? _Thinking_ about doing something bad?”

 

“Would you shut up?” Sam laughed. Dean appeared to be alright, and that only raised more questions. He was relieved to see Dean in higher spirits, but what was the cost to make him this way? Just what happened last night? “I didn't want to be, you know, impolite and ask–“

 

“Your face is impolite, but that's never stopped me from loving you.”

 

The bag was haphazardly tossed in next to Sam's and the trunk slammed shut, all done with an expression Sam could not read. Was he joking? You can't say something so dorky with such a straight face! Being rendered speechless, all Sam could do in response was make a disapproving noise in the back of his throat and roll his eyes. “I didn't want to be impolite, but I'm not sure about that now.”

 

“Blame bad gene inheritance. Now come on,” he tapped his fist against the trunk for emphasis. “Spill 'em.”

 

He was going to ruin it. He was going to ruin Dean's mood, which would make for one hell of a long trip back home. That was the least of his concern, though. Dean being able to kid around like this now, no hint of sarcasm and intention to hurt in his countenance or voice, it was not contagious, but... Knowing he was fine, not being tortured by an unseen force, was a relief; Dean, by being OK, made Sam OK. But here he was, about to slap that good out of him. “You, Dean... How are you?”

 

Dean knew his little brother well enough to interpret the multiple meanings of the simple phrase. It was not a casual greeting one would ask after a night's sleep. He alluded to the things he had said to both Sam and Cas, had done to them, had made them witness. How he had changed. So what was the answer? After weeks of feeling as likeable as an STD and just as friendly, how should he answer?

 

“Think I'm doing fine, Sammy.” He nodded to himself in agreement. That sounded fair. Neutrality was correct. His mind was partially out of the fog, thinking a lot clearer than he had in some time. But some still remained, a weight he couldn't separate from. A constant prescient of what he thought the future to hold: death, loss, betrayal. Things that could not be taken back or reclaimed. These burdens were not as vivid as they had been, but they remained. People risk loss when they give so much away. It was what Dean wanted. “No more regrets” is what he told himself, and he wanted so badly to fulfill that affirmation.

 

That did not seem to be the answer Sam was expecting. “Alright, what's with _this_ look, now?”

 

Sam looked briefly to the door Dean had come out of and pursed his lips. “You say that, but where's Cas?” Making an annoyingly indignant noise, Dean tapped the back window on the side of the car closest to himself. “Tell me you're kidding.” He prayed for sanity's sake that he would not find Cas sitting back there. He was disappointed. Staring straight ahead so only his profile was visible to Sam sat a very, _very_ lazy angel. Looking back to Dean, then to Cas once again, a long scrutinizing gaze that went unnoticed, and back to Dean whose face said _yeah, I know_. “He...” Sam huffed out in exasperation. “He couldn't walk the two yards it took from the door to the car?”

 

“What can I say? He's a complicated man.”

 

“He's not even a man!”

 

“He's a complicated angel,” Dean amended himself in the same tone.

 

“Please tell me you won't start singing the lyrics to the 'Shaft' theme or I swear to God I'm hitchhiking home.”

 

“No promises, Sammy. Now shut up with the questions and hop in. Take heed of that 'shut up' part, won't you?” Dean opened the driver's side door and took a seat. When you're told not to do something, you immediately want to do that thing. He wanted to, but found that he couldn't - not now, anyway. Annoying Sam was the name of the game, his goal and one of the few constants he had left. Cas, though, he wanted to embarrass Cas, just a tiny bit. He could sing to Cas, replacing lyrics of whatever song although it would only serve to confuse him. Being familiar with a song made it more personal, and whatever became personal then served as a weapon. Making the warrior of God blush was now one of the few items he had left on his list of things he never thought he'd get Cas to do. Like last night...

 

Without his consent, the corner of Dean's lip quirked up. Checked off a lot of goals on that list. As Sam sat down on his side and surveyed Dean, a combination of concern and disbelief set on his face, he swiftly erased it. Explaining that would be traumatizing for the both of them.

 

Sam decided to let the devious smile slide and asked if Dean had already returned the room key. Starting his baby up, Dean answered that Cas had done it before he poofed up in the car. “I didn't want him to because I'm supposed to be staying in that room _alone_ ,” he complained passively aggressive, eying Cas's reflection in the review mirror.

 

“I wouldn't have done it if I had known the clerk was at the counter,” he huffed out expectantly. Cas had a feeling Dean would think him reckless for doing that. The caution was justified, he supposed: Cas wasn't a stranger to making a fool out of himself because of assumptions, even if that was not the case this time.

 

“Well, how could you have known?”

 

“I just did.”

 

There was a mental standoff then, the two staring at each others reflection in the small mirror unblinking and unflinching. If Sam listened long enough, he was positive he would hear crickets chirping a melody close by. Who was to say a tumbleweed wouldn't roll by in the breeze? A moment later both men averted their eyes, Cas deciding the parking lot held many mysteries.

 

Should he say anything? Was now the best time to say something? Yeah. Now was good.

 

As Dean put the car into reverse and strained over his shoulder, Sam quipped, “I've seen married couples fight less like married couples than you two do.”

 

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean and Cas replied curtly in unison.

 

* * *

 

 

“Did you ever end up calling that girl from the bar back?”

 

“Kelsi? Yeah.” Sam's hand rubbed nervously on his thigh, suddenly feeling guilt about something that should have been standard procedure. “Two days ago, before we...” It didn't need to be spoken aloud. What he referred to was as obvious as a fist in your face and to Dean that's kind of what it felt like, from what Sam could see. His brother swallowed visibly and straightened his posture. Sam had only seen the results from the attack that painted Dean and not what actually went on in the dark of that run down little shack in the middle of the woods, but it was enough. Both he and Dean were more than willing to let that night fade away like a dream.

 

“Um, yeah. I told her what I should have at the bar: not gonna be around long, temporary stay, wish I could go out on a date but my possessive brother drives me cross-country to rub the fact that he has a steady relationship in my face while I can only look through the display case of life and not touch a damn thing.” He paused, watching Dean nod in agreement and grin like a cat from the corner of his eye. “I hate you sometimes.”

 

“Don't be so modest. You hate me all the time.” In the span of a second Sam could have sworn he saw Dean's eyes darken. It happened so quickly he wasn't sure it actually happened.

 

Even with the windows rolled down, the draft a continuous force against their ears, the sound of Sam's stomach gurgling could be heard.

 

Maybe he was delirious from hunger.

 

Dean could have ribbed his younger brother because the sound to his ears was juvenile. But it's for that reason he did not – because it brought him back to their childhood. Back to those days -sometimes weeks- that Dad was gone, leaving two young children to scavenge whatever they could find and ration off whatever they did have. Sam got the bigger portion, of course: cheese sandwiches and jerky and a can of frank and beans shared between the two, sometimes the only source of food they would have all day. He would listen to Sam sleep at night, his insides sounding protest to such inefficiency. Even as adults, when forced to such meager ends, Dean made sure, out of habit or... or who knows what, that Sam was the one who would sleep peacefully that night.

 

Castiel shifted.

 

So, instead: “You skip dinner last night?”

 

“No, not really,” Sam said dubiously. “Guess I just really want pancakes.”

 

“As does any wise man,” Dean inclined his head regally. “That being said,” he raised his voice to make sure he was heard in the back, “I take it you're getting a bowl of oatmeal, Cas? Pretty confident that's the opposite of– the hell, Cas?!”

 

Being cramped in the back seat and seated behind Sam, with already little room to spare, Cas slid over enough for Dean to not notice and kneed the back of the seat. Since older model cars such as the Impala had bench-style seats, he ended up moving the entire thing with the youngest brother bucking forward, too. Cas moved back to where he was once his mission was completed, hands folded in his laps and enjoying the full and vivid colors of the more natural settings on this drive before the noise and monotonous gray of the highway.

 

“You hit my baby! Why'd you...” He was flustered by such impertinence. “...You hit my baby!”

 

Sam covered his fingers over his mouth, trying to conceal the smirk on his face. “Well you _did_ indirectly call him an idiot.”

 

“Those aren't grounds to abuse a family member!”

 

So he wanted to go there, did he? “Do you remember the time you gave me Indian burns for not giving you the remote?”

 

“Yeah. Well,” he mumbled, “I asked politely.”

 

“You, as a grown man,” he pointed to Dean for emphasis, “gave his brother, also grown, an Indian burn, which is something only 11-year-olds do. Was that not childish abuse?”

 

Dean pouted and continued to mumble. “I asked politely.”

 

Unable to hold it back anymore, Sam doubled over laughing, clutching his rumbling stomach Him and Dean haven't grown up much, have they? Still having the same fights in their thirties as they did at 12. Dean, always pouty, always right and Sam putting up with it, sometimes with a smile, sometimes with the intent to kill. But that was normal, wasn't it? That siblings never stop verbally nipping at each other in both play and ire? That boys never really stop being boys? They, here in this bubble, segregated from an ideal world, could still feel human.

 

“Great, now this jackass won't stop laughing.” Dean pointed a finger indignantly at the review mirror. “You're sleeping on the couch tonight, Cas!” He was the one that started this so he should suffer! A very uninspired punishment since Castiel did not need to sleep and could intrude while Dean slept, but it was all he could honestly think to say at the moment. Stupid brother, such a frustrating good-for-nothing sonofa...

 

“That's such bullshit! You know you can't sleep without him!” Once he barked out a laugh, so excessively loud it could have shattered glass, Dean began to pelt him with slaps wherever he could hit, Sam blocking the light blows with his arm and not letting up.

 

It was something they did, Cas surmised: humans teasing not with the intention to cause anguish but... something close to anguish? It was all confusing. Words could be said to one person that would be offensive to another. And the two of them endlessly taunting each other, never out of pure malice but what Sam referred to as a family dynamic. This play-fighting is normal, especially between males. They want to smack each other, but not literally. Pull out the others hair, but not literally. Mocking past embarrassments and fears and it was all considered friendly.

 

Confusing.

 

The “dynamic” was something that never existed between his own family: they were more compatriots than siblings. Raised as warriors, not unlike his human family. The bonds formed were flimsy, a casual acceptance of being in close proximity for the same assignment, or in Castiel's case, the agreement of lower rank following higher. Their source was the same, and that's where similarities and comparisons ended. Not even the love for their Father could unite them anymore. But that crack in their faith formed long ago.

 

Cas would watch them with an awe he was sure would not cease for many years. It was uncivilized at first even for humans, the name calling and the shoving and Cas's disgust was visible. As it happened more and more, and as he got accustomed to the souls he had been observing for so long, the rough-housing became fascinating, although he still hid under the guise of distaste. What an odd way to show love. When he told the boys how angels showed love in heaven (only to their Father), they thought it was narcissistic and sounded like what cult leaders command of their followers. Singing and praise... Castiel preferred to show it through his actions.

 

Sam teased Dean. Dean became enraged. Sam teased Dean more. A childish cycle, but it was one that made them happy. To them that meant things were OK for now, and as far as they knew, it was. He would not burden Dean with details of his sleep last night. He fell asleep so contented only to dream, curling into a ball, back and forehead a sheen of sweat, mumbling words Cas couldn't make out, if they were words at all. Cas moved in close but not enough to envelope him and rubbed his back with one hand. The slow circular motion was repeated for twenty minutes before Dean's terrors subsided. He seemed to have no memory of it this morning. Cas intended to keep it that way.

 

He wouldn't tell them that Jillian and Roland did return home to a very uncertain future. As Dean showered, Cas watched a national morning news program on TV, their names and images appearing on the screen shortly before he got out. The details were being withheld, information like where they had been and why they left. Cas had a hunch the information was not being released because there was no information _to_ be released. The chance of the host bodies not being conscious of their ordeal was very probable. Cas would not bring this up to the brothers, not yet. Once they returned to Lebanon, perhaps, or maybe tomorrow.

 

He wouldn't speak of the questions that still remained. Too many. Even if the two had remained in their custody longer, they wouldn't have answered any of them. Castiel understood the risks involved with divulging information... but unresolved issues pestered him like flies. They had said this universe was chosen at random. Was it truly? Was there something about these Winchesters that made them unique among the near replicants? And why choose those humans as vessels? Was that also randomized? It was in Cas's nature to study and survey what was around him, it had been his job in fact. He wanted– he needed to know more about “Roland” and “Jillian.”

 

Would Earth return to what was normal?

 

Was their presence not only effecting their world but the countless others?

 

Fifteen hours were lost to time. Where was he? What did he do? One thing he has learned while on Earth is that nothing good happens as a result of blacking out.

 

The unknowns did not frighten Cas. They were an insistent whisper in his ear: don't forget. A voice they may or may not have been his own suggesting him to be aware. Of what? The future? You can't prepare for something with so many questionable variables. That's how humans spent their lives. Be ready for the worst – death. That could be a minute or seventy years from now. What could you do?

 

Angel radio chatter had been steadily increasing for days. He couldn't be bothered to listen right now.

 

Dean came to a stop light and used the opportunity to lunge at Sam. “Cas, defend my honor!” Dean tried to say, only partially comprehensible due to Sam's hand pushing against his mouth and nose. “You have permission to smite his bitter ass.”

 

“ _Bitter_?!”

 

“Bitter!” Which sounded more like “Bibber.”

 

“You may go now, Dean.”

 

There was a momentary ceasefire. “Wha?”

 

The car horn blaring behind when was the answer he received. Dean leaned off of his brother reluctantly and resumed driving but not before Sam got in a playful shot to the kidney.

 

“Cas, would you kill this little fucker already?” he grimaced, rubbing his side. “I won't be mad if you did.” Dean knew Cas wouldn't answer. It was more for Sam's ears, to remind him he had an angel _would_ kill for him if the person wasn't his brother. Sam was still giggling so the chances of him hearing that were slim.

 

This was Cas's family now. They chose him. He still didn't really understand it, but they did. They wanted him here. Dean wanted him. Dysfunctional. Chaotic. It felt just like home.

 

“ _Karass_.”

 

“Say something, Cas?” Sam asked, smoothing down his ruffled hair.

 

“ _Karass_...” Dean meditated. “Yeah. I guess you could say it is.” He turned his head to smile with sealed lips to Cas. That was one way of putting their relationship. A pretty accurate way.

 

“What does that mean?” For once Sam was out of the loop. He didn't like it, not one bit. Why was he beginning to feel like the Castiel of this group when Cas was right behind him?

 

“Oh, my dear, sweet, ignorant little brother.” Dean reached out to grab Sam's shoulder to only have him uneasily knock it away. Sweet brother indeed. “You should really read a book sometime. It'll be good for you. Open your mind to new ideas.”

 

Pressing his fingers to his temples and massaging them, Sam groaned out, “Cas, I mean it. How have you not killed him yet?”

 

Cas decided to play along. “I'm... not sure.”

 

Dean then yelled about him being a back-stabbing son of a bitch while at the same time missing the turn for the diner, which only made him curse again. But that was fine; Dean didn't really care. The noise -Dean complaining about something- was harmonic compared to the silence it could have been.

 

Today would be a good one. He would make sure of it.

 

* * *

 

 

“And all of this is true?”

 

“Yes, sir.” He lowered his eyebrows, surprised that his word was being doubted. Well, maybe he was in his right to be skeptical because it did sound pretty fanciful, but still – one doesn't like others second guessing when they're being truthful. “Why would I lie?”

 

The man in black shrugged. “Just thought I'd give you the opportunity to recant on any statements, scuff out a fib or two, being the gentleman that I am and all.” He took a sip from an amber-filled glass, ice cubes clinking against the side. “Trying to kill me is one thing. But lying? That won't do. Neutering you and feeding the result to the hounds, now that _would_ do.”

 

“I know it sounds strange, sir, but that's everything I heard.” He sighed inwardly and tried to keep his face like stone. His master always had a flair for the dramatic.

 

Could it be that Christmas has arrived early this year? Here was his own person Saint Nick delivering a sleigh full of goodies of all shapes and sizes. The best gift you could receive is information, of course. The actual factual kind, not rumors and fallacies. Too many bootleg gifts being given these days, enough to make you want to return them – with an angel blade, straight through the throat. Very precise, those weapons. A needle blade slides cleanly through with no resistance that even those indolent angels could use the satisfactorily.

 

Crowley pulled out his mental journal. _You should kill more angels. Use the excuse of weapon procurement._ Always good to have goals.

 

So what was under the lid of the first box? A squirrel drenched in blood that did not belong to it. Seems that Dean, whose very existence was about as delightful as a hemorrhoid, was losing his mind. That's partially correct since Dean's daddy took that long before demons meant anything more than a word scribbled in a book. So whatever crumb of sanity was left was being sucked up by a vacuum. Unrestrained aggression blooming in the blink of an eye, the kind of violence that made any demonic being weak in the knees. He got all tingly thinking about the business Dean ran in hell and that deft and lovely blade work.

 

Unstable. Vulnerable. The progress should be quite the performance.

 

Tall, dark, and friendly wasn't much better off, either. He was... how did he put it? Losing himself? His identity? Well, it was something like that. The angel's existential dilemma wasn't the present left under the next box, one he was certain his little birdy on the field could not be lying about. Crowley's former best friend forever Castiel and the smaller Winchester boy saw in each other what every bloody person who came into contact with them saw: they were absolutely stupid for each other and now shared a bed and spit and other equally unsanitary fluids. That Cas... Always did have a soft spot for Dean. Because of that, he should _know_ better than to cross that line. Like most stories -true and fictional- from the past, these star-crossed lovers were destined for soul-sundering tragedy. Crowley need not be the cause for that devastation. That wasn't to say he would never take advantage of that fact. The lengths the two would now go to protect each other, the possibilities could make your mouth water.

 

The third box, the largest and curiously without a bottom, contained nothing but when opened, the empty space seemed to float on and on. You thrust your hand in and hit nothing. Say “chao” to whatever you drop in there. Endless like the possibilities it held.

 

Two hitchhikers from the planet X tear a hole through time and space, reality itself, to stalk his three most favorite people. Crowley felt a tad slighted at being blown off because who has been a constant in the Winchesters lives for years? Who was business partners with the renegade angel who became God? He'd pout at being considered a footnote to those dolts if the future they provided to him, practically on a silver platter, didn't look so darn bright.

 

A person would have to be blind to not see the changes happening. He had to “let go” some of his own lackeys for being uncontrollable and downright rude. So when creatures that were neither angel nor demonic nor fantastical beast said they were the cause, it wouldn't hurt to consider that they just might be.

 

To alter something there must be a trace of the before blending into the after; a point of origin. If they entered this world roughly and without any lubrication, there would be a painful little tear. A literal hole floating above the ground, a mirage-like distortion in the air, a vortex in the ocean, who knows what it looks like or if it is visible at all. But it existed, and he would find it.

 

What then? What was the plan? You find a rip in the universe's panty hose and what happens? You explore, obviously, but what do you expect to find? Travel to another version of reality. Your very essence is eradicated by the bridge that hole has made. Better yet, you find _them_.

 

He stood up from his director-styled chair and as he strolled away he patted the nameless man on the shoulder, not bothering to look at him. “So nice to see a scout following a simple request.”

 

The path to God. A God among Gods and none of the red tape, and that path began with a step.

 

It's always good to have goals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's over. This excessively long story is over.
> 
> I'm leaving an open ending because I'm not really sure what I want to do with this story in the future. Fragments will continue, but perhaps as nothing more than one shots. I don't know~ If I continue the events of SL specifically, the universe might become too large to keep up with. Bringing in the characters I would like to bring in, and introducing new ones, scares me a little!
> 
> Plus I'd like to write other pairings for SPN. Might take a break to do just that.


End file.
